Only Intelligent
by Basser
Summary: John Watson is a respectable medical student in his early twenties. He has a nice flat, a good job... and he's best friends with a drug-addicted teenage street rat by the name of Sherlock Holmes. AU in which our heroes met many years earlier.
1. One

**A/N: **_Because part 6 of Can't Rewind Now is refusing to arrange itself coherently and I feel terrible for making people wait so long. I really am sorry, regular readers!_

_Anyway here's an AU I've been messing about with for awhile. John's still a med student, Sherlock is a drug-addled teenager. Later chapters will focus more on the backstory involved with this, but for now here's some good old-fashioned in medias res to get things going._

_Short and (a bit) sweet with angst by the truckload and some slight H/C. Hope you find it interesting, at least._

* * *

_**Do you have a couch? -SH**_

_**Yeah. What for?**_

_**To sleep on, obviously. -SH**_

_**Just for a night. If it's alright with you. -SH**_

He fidgets with nervous energy as he waits for a reply, heartbeat pounding in his ears. A minute passes, then another. _Damn it, shouldn't have asked. Who would let a drug addict sleep on their couch? You idiot, now he thinks you're needy, he'll never speak to you again._

Waiting is torture but he forces himself to watch the numbers on his phone until they hit the next multiple of ten. John still hasn't replied. He huddles over his phone and hurriedly types out a third text.

_**Nevermind, ignore last two texts. Sorry. -SH**_

_Sorry. Sorry sorry _sorry _I'm sorry don't hate me,_ he thinks in a panic. Hits send and stows the phone in his pocket as if putting it out of sight will erase the stupidity of what he's done. The only person in the whole world who ever seems pleased to see him and he just had to go begging for charity. John will cut him out of his life now, realise he's been nothing but a needy junkie this whole time and seek to distance himself before Sherlock can bleed him dry. Oh god, Mycroft was right; he ruins every relationship he touches.

He draws his legs up on the wall and leans forwards to rest his head on his knees and tug fretfully at his damp, icy hair. It's close to freezing out, and he'd been too focused on getting the hell _out_ to think to put on anything warmer than a hoodie. For now he's too amped up to notice. Low ambient temperature hardly matters while his blood is screaming through his veins and every muscle vibrates with heated energy. But it's been ages since his last hit and the high is set to fade any moment. Soon the drugs will wear off completely and he'll almost certainly freeze to death.

The prospect doesn't scare him nearly as much as he thinks it should.

A chiming noise shatters the quiet and he jumps, coming perilously close to toppling off the low wall he's sitting on. He retrieves his phone with shaking fingers and for a well over a minute simply stares at the screen. _**MESSAGE RECIEVED FROM JOHN WATSON.**_ Oh god. He doesn't want to open it. He can't. John is going to tell him to go to hell and _of course he is, you should never have bothered him. You idiot. You moron. Now he knows how pathetic you are._

But he owes it to John to read the text, to know how badly he's fucked things up this time.

_**Sorry had a call from mum. Of course you can kip on my sofa!**_

Sherlock blinks. Reads the text again. _Of course you can._ Is John being sarcastic or is he actually possibly somehow maybe amazingly _okay_ with a cokehead invading his flat for the night? Sherlock's thumbs are flying over the keys before he can even think.

_**Are you sure? -SH**_

This time the reply arrives in seconds.

_**Yes, absolutely.**_

His heart is racing again. Not from fear this time but something like elation. John's _sure._ _Absolutely_ sure. He suddenly becomes aware of a stupid, giddy smile creeping onto his face and does his best to erase it before some passerby sees. He gets another text.

_**You need the address?**_

Sherlock laughs. Of course he doesn't. He's followed John home dozens of times already out of sheer boredom, making a game of seeing how close he can get before the oblivious junior doctor notices anything amiss.

_**No. -SH**_

_**Course not. Well come over then I've got tea on.**_

Sherlock stows the phone again and tries not to grin too manically as he hops off the wall and retrieves his violin case. John's flat is several blocks away- a good distance, but not too far to walk. The way he's feeling he thinks he might _run_.

The walk(/run, but only for a few minutes before he nearly passes out from exhaustion) takes around half an hour, so that by the time he knocks on John's door he's shivering violently with a combination of both cold and withdrawl-induced muscle fatigue. His fingers on the handle of the violin case are tinged blue, even with the sleeve of his hoodie pulled down to cover them, and the other hand isn't much better even for having been tucked away in his jeans pocket. He huddles on the steps outside the door and tries very hard to ignore the part of his brain insisting that John's reconsidered, is about to yell at him to get lost, he should leave leave _leave_ now before another person can choose to abandon him.

"Hey!" John's voice is warm as he opens the door, and he's smiling... until he sees Sherlock. Seeing the doctor's handsome boyish face falling into a frown at the sight of him twists Sherlock's guts into an icy knot of fear, and he very nearly turns to run. He _can't _handle a rejection right now, he really, honestly, _truly_ can't. He's about to stammer an apology, try to salvage something of their still-tentative friendship when John suddenly speaks again; "Jesus, Sherlock! What happened? You look like you've been mugged!"

Sherlock is wrong-footed. Concern is not an emotion he encounters often, and for several long seconds he stares uncomprehendingly at the smaller man. He'd been expecting anger. "I... s-sort of, I guess?" he finally stutters. It occurs to him that the reply doesn't make any kind of sense, but he can't think of how to fix it before John is talking again.

"Well don't just stand there you idiot, come inside. It's bloody freezing out here!"

And just like that, John is ushering him in. The warmth of the flat prickles on his skin and his maybe-friend is touching his arms and hands and guiding him to a sofa and he thinks _good lord, does he actually care that I'm hurt? Does it bother him that I'm injured and cold and tired and oh christ who the hell told anyone they should care about me I'm not worth this I'm not-_

"Sherlock?" John is speaking again and it cuts through his thoughts to hear a voice saying his name with such unfamiliar concern. He forces his fogged brain to focus as the doctor drapes an afghan over his bony shoulders and sits down on the coffee table opposite to face him. "Sherlock, hey. Look at me. What happened? You look like hell."

"I _feel _like hell," Sherlock hears himself mumble. John's expression is full of worry. Sherlock doesn't know what to do with worry, not from other people. Not towards him. People don't worry about sociopathic junkies. He clears his throat. "Just a fight, is all," he says in as close an approximation of unconcerned as he can manage. "Simple domestic argument, nothing to worry about. I'll be fine. I wouldn't have bothered you but the outside temperature is a little low for sleeping rough and I forgot to grab a coat on the way out." There, perfect. He's not being needy- just absentminded. John will laugh and perhaps scold him, nothing to fret over.

"You... just had a domestic?" John asks in a disbelieving voice. Sherlock tenses. Leave it to John to focus on entirely the wrong part of the sentence. _I don't want to talk about that._

"Yes," he answers anyway, because he has to.

"Christ," the doctor shoves a hand through his hair, "your... boyfriend, I'm assuming? Which is fine by the way."

"I know it's fine," Sherlock replies stiffly. It's not, really. Sherlock's never been less fine in his life. And he _doesn't want to talk about this._ Shut up, John. _Please _shut up.

"So you and your boyfriend had a row and he beat the hell out of you," John says. "Sherlock, that... really doesn't sound like a healthy relationship."

Sherlock laughs, suddenly. Short and bitter and much closer to a sob than he'd like. He stifles himself before the sound can grow manic.

"I have never had a relationship in my life that could be considered _'healthy'_," he informs John in a low, cold voice. "Regardless, Vincent is more of a dealer than a romantic partner. This is..." he chokes for some reason, swallows convulsively to rid his throat of whatever blockage is strangling his words, "... this is not an infrequent occurence." He avoids John's eyes and presses forward with the careful indifference he's learned to rely on, "I am not badly injured, despite appearances. I'll be well enough after a night's rest. I'll be fine. I'm fine."

John doesn't look like he believes him. Sherlock doesn't really believe himself either but he has to convince the both of them somehow. Denial is all he has left. It simply isn't possible anymore to face the enormity of his situation and come out sane.

"Uh huh," John intones dubiously, "and what then? You'll just go crawling back I suppose?"

"Pretty sure I'll still be capable of walking in the morning," he grumbles. "Your couch can't be _that_ bad."

"Sherlock!" John snaps. "This is serious!"

"It's none of your business!" Sherlock bites back viciously and crosses his arms over his chest. If he were smart he would leave now, get away from this discussion and John and this fucking plethora of stupid tangled _feelings._ But he's not smart, not at all, or he would never have found himself here in the first place. He's only intelligent. Useless facts will never outweigh the primal fear of a cold and lingering death on the London streets. So he stays seated and curls in on himself miserably and hopes John will get the hint and drop it.

"Fine, fine," John throws up his hands in defeat. A brief thrill of fear runs through Sherlock's mind at the thought that he's been given up on. But John just continues in a softer voice, "let me have a look at that cut, at least. I've got a med kit in the other room."

Sherlock is still glaring at the wall but he nods once to show his assent, and in just a few minutes John is tending to the gash on his forehead and disinfecting the tiny scrapes and tears on his arms. It's such a marked difference from the last person who willingly touched him that he finds the lump back in his throat and his vision blurring. He tells himself the shudders wracking his stick figure body are just cocaine withdrawl. His harsh breathing from the half hour out in the cold night air.

"Alright?" John asks. Sherlock sets his jaw and says nothing.

After a moment, John doesn't either.


	2. Two

**A/N: **_So since Can't Rewind averages 15k words per chapter I've decided to limit this story's installments to around 2-3k words. That'll hopefully keep me from getting overwhelmed and help this remain my 'relax and don't think about stuff too hard' project. __I'm also changing up my headcanon for Sherlock's home life, because using the same backstory every time is boring. Just FYI for anyone who's read my other stuff._

_Anyway here we go with how they met - I hope my John characterisation is okay. Thanks for the lovely response to the first chapter, you guys!_

* * *

It starts with a violin.

A young man stands outside Barts with a sonata and an open case. Busking isn't technically allowed anywhere near the hospital grounds, but it's slow in the early hours and the melody is haunting, so no one has bothered to report a disturbance.

John needs some air - has to get away from the stench of sickness and fear and death. Medicine draws him like a moth to a flame. There's no question in his mind, it's what he wants to do for the rest of his life... but that doesn't mean he's immune to such constant exposure to human suffering. He asks for a break the second he reasonably can and makes his way to the steps outside the hospital. Just to breathe, get his bearings, reorient.

And there was the violinist. Tall, gangly, awkward in that subtle way of late adolescence. He's old enough to have mostly finished growing but not yet comfortable in his own skin; not used to his own height and joints. Every movement just that tiny bit uncertain... except, of course, for the hands. Fingers flying with perfect coordination, bow flashing in the dim morning light. The concerto drifting from the strings of a scrupulously-maintained violin is frankly incredible in its artistry. The boy is a virtuoso - busking for pocket change outside a London teaching hospital.

How strangely the world works, John remembers thinking. When not even genius can save you from the darkness. Perfectly ordinary people become doctors and bankers and kings while true talent stands on the pavement with nothing but a few crumpled pounds and an open violin case.

As the trailing notes of the song's end fade away John stands, digs a tenner out of his wallet and drops it onto the little pile of smaller notes and change.

"That was _brilliant_," he says, smiling. "Really, you're amazing."

The violinist lowers his instrument and shoots him a questioning look. He seems confused, maybe a bit wary, so John tries a reassuring smile.

"Just... thought I'd let you know I thought it was great," he clarifies with a shrug and a bit of a self-depreciating chuckle. "Sorry, s'pose that did sound a bit weird out of the blue like that."

The boy blinks in response and shifts uncomfortably, fingers plucking at the violin now tucked up against the front of his frayed black jumper.

"It's... no, it was fine," he replies after a moment. His voice is unexpectedly deep. A low baritone which offsets the otherwise juvenile impression of his wild curls and too-thin face.

John smiles again, wide and unassuming, and the teenager very hesitantly returns the gesture.

"Well I've really got to get back to work," John admits. He's been out here far longer than he'd intended - his supervisor's probably having kittens by now. "See you around, I guess?"

The violinist shrugs, a wordless _'maybe'_, and John flips him a friendly little wave as he makes his way back up the steps and into the hospital.

:::

He's there again the next day, when John takes his morning break. Not playing this time - there's a community support officer just round the corner, John noticed him on his rounds earlier, so the boy probably isn't willing to risk busking. Instead he's sitting cross-legged on a bench near the staircase with a book propped open in his lap. John grins to himself and goes to take a seat next to the young man.

"What're you reading?" he asks pleasantly.

The teenager glances over at him. "Applied chemistry for use in forensic analysis."

He lifts the book slightly, and indeed it's a collection of academic journals in paperback. John blinks and quirks an amused smile.

"Just some light material before breakfast, huh?" He doesn't get a response besides a vague _'hmm'_, so he decides to go for another question. "What's your name?"

_That_ gets a reaction - specifically a sidelong stare and a confused, wary look. "Why?"

John shrugs. "Just being friendly." He smiles and holds out a hand to shake. "I'm John, by the way."

The teenager wrinkles his nose ever so slightly at the proffered hand but grasps it nonetheless. "Sherlock," he mutters, dropping the grip after barely half a shake and going back to his book.

"Sherlock? That's an interesting name," John continues. He's probably annoying the hell out of the poor boy at this point but he finds he really can't help it - after the morning's mountain of work, case after case of horrible open gaping wounds and suture techniques, there's nothing he wants more than to have a nice, normal conversation. Preferably about something other than diseases or bloody entrails. "What's the origin? French?"

"No," Sherlock replies, still looking down at the pages. His voice drops into something mocking and sardonic as he elaborates; "It doesn't mean anything. My parents named all their offspring by throwing syllables together at random with no thought to the absurdity of the outcomes."

John chuckles at the palpable sarcasm and leans back into the bench. "Oh come on, can't be _that_ bad."

The young man shoots him a flat look. "My siblings are 'Mycroft' and 'Enola'."

"Alright... those're pretty bad," John admits with a slight wince. Sherlock snorts derisively in agreement.

"Still," John continues, "better than a boring old name like John I guess."

"True, 'John' is an exceedingly boring name," Sherlock concedes, apparently not caring if he's rude. John doesn't mind though - the bluntness is a welcome change from his usual social interactions, where everyone's always bending over backwards trying to be polite.

With another small chuckle John smiles and leans his head back to stare up into the cloudy sky, listening to birds beginning to stir in the late autumn trees. Every so often the young man next to him turns a page. It's tranquil, really. He thinks longingly of his bed at home and tries to remember how long it's been since he slept more than a handful of hours at a time. These days it seems like he's too busy to even breathe.

"You're due back on shift in three minutes," Sherlock mutters, the voice cutting into John's semi-conscious trance. He blinks himself awake and glances down at his watch with a groan.

"Ugh... so I am," he grumbles. "Thanks for reminding me."

Sherlock just shrugs, not looking up. John yawns widely and stands to stretch the kinks out of his back. Going back into the hospital is really the absolute _last_ bloody thing he wants to do right now, but he doesn't exactly have a choice.

As he makes his way toward the stairs, a thought occurs to him.

"Hey," he says, turning around. Sherlock blinks and glances up at him.

"Yes?"

"Are you going to be hanging around here near lunchtime?" John doesn't quite know why he's asking - except that he's sick of watching the stressed, tense faces of his fellow students, the condescending doctors, harried nurses and busy support staff day in day out. This strange, half-starved violinist sitting criss-cross on a public bench like a buddhist monk is an oasis of calm in comparison to the storm that awaits inside the hospital.

Sherlock stares at him for a few seconds longer than is strictly polite, then shrugs. "Probably."

John smiles. "Brilliant."

:::

Sherlock, true to his word, is still sitting on the bench when John is finally dismissed for a meal break. The teenager's shifted to lie across the bench horizontally instead of sitting in his lotus position, book held aloft above his face with one hand while the other arm is folded behind his head as a makeshift pillow.

"You've just been out here reading all morning?" John asks. Sherock _'hmm'_s and lowers his book slightly to regard him over the pages.

"More interesting than observing surgery techniques," he responds after a second's glance over John's appearance. His gaze lingers questioningly on the two sandwiches in John's hands.

John catches the look and smiles as he walks over. He holds one of the plastic-wrapped bundles out to the younger man. "Hope you like turkey. We just had a shift change so the cafeteria was out of everything else."

Sherlock blinks, evidently confused, and sits up to take the sandwich. He draws his long legs up, folds one under his thigh while the other hangs off the side of the bench, and stares sidelong as John takes a seat in the now-vacated space.

"You... bought me lunch?" he mumbles rather blankly.

John shrugs. "Just cafeteria food," he replies. "Not exactly five-star or anything. Figured I'd pick up an extra since I was there."

Sherlock doesn't seem to know how to respond. That's fine, John's perfectly happy to let him mull it over for as long as he needs to. He's quite aware how strange this all must seem - a respectable medical student going out of his way to spend time with a street kid? _Of course_ the boy's going to be wary. Probably thinks he's some kind of creepy predator or something. But John finds he honestly doesn't care; all he wants is to have a nice meal with some intelligent company. If said intelligent company happens to be a vagabond street busker loitering by the side entrance then so be it.

Most of all though what he really wants is to spend time with someone he doesn't have to worry about impressing. Everyone in the hospital is part of a massive, neverending gossip mill. Each conversation with his colleagues carries the possibility of causing a blemish on social standing, every tiny slip-up noted and recorded by the sharp ears and cutthroat competitiveness of fellow students. Here though, with Sherlock, it's different. He can sit and eat his sandwich and not think about work or his studies or keeping up appearances. Refreshing doesn't even _begin_ to describe it.

Silence stretches for a few moments, slightly awkward... yet still somehow companionable.

Eventually, John decides he should at least make _some _effort to have a conversation. "So how old are you?" he questions. "If you don't mind my asking."

Sherlock glances over from where he'd been working on picking the clingfilm off his sandwich without tearing it.

"How old do you _think_ I am?" he asks in reply, eyes narrowing slightly in interest. He goes back to his sandwich, finally gets a corner of the bread free and takes a careful bite of the turkey-and-lettuce concoction.

John takes another bite of his own sandwich and makes a thoughtful noise. "I'm not really sure," he admits. "Definitely still a teenager though. Maybe... seventeen?"

Sherlock frowns, either at the taste of the cheap lunch meat or John's guess. Possibly both.

"That's a reasonable estimation," he concedes. The bland, half-sarcastic tone makes it obvious he's being intentionally obtuse.

John twists his mouth in slight consternation. "Does that mean I'm right?"

Sherlock smirks and takes another bite. "No."

"If you don't want to tell me you can just say so, you know," John quips, rolling his eyes. It's not like he had any burning desire to know or anything - he'd just been making conversation.

"Where would be the fun in that?"

The lighthearted tone from the otherwise-sombre youth takes John off-guard, and he glances over to see Sherlock watching him with an amused expression. John smiles and shakes his head.

"Well then what's your guess for me?" he asks teasingly.

The response is immediate. "Twenty three years, eight months and seven days."

John blinks. "That's... uh. Wow, okay. That's a _really_ good guess."

Sherlock sighs in apparent annoyance. "Your date of birth is printed on your employee badge," he points out flatly. "Which is hanging out of your pocket."

John looks down and, indeed, his badge has managed to work itself partially free of the trouser pocket he'd shoved it into on his way out of the cafeteria. His birthday is clearly printed on the laminated surface just under his photograph... but the writing is _tiny_. It's not something he'd have seen without specifically looking for it.

"You spotted that just now?" he says in surprise.

Sherlock suddenly looks uncomfortable. "Yes," he half-mumbles. "It was just... I noticed when I looked over. Sorry."

"Sorry? What for?" John exclaims, looking up. "I'd have never even thought to look for something like that! Brilliant, really."

Sherlock's staring at him again. "Brilliant?"

"Yeah," John asserts. "You just pick up details like that? Without even trying? That's pretty extraordinary."

"That's... not what most people say." Sherlock's expression seems to have caught somewhere between befuddled and pleased. His gaze flits away as he fiddles idly with the clingfilm on his sandwich.

"What do most people say?" John asks, frowning.

Sherlock quirks a wry smile. "_'Piss off.'_"

John laughs. Sherlock's smile widens into something more genuine. And for just a moment, everything fades away. They're just two friends sitting on a public bench with sandwiches.

For that brief instant John forgets that he's due back on shift in ten minutes, forgets about the blood and the bones and the stench of sick that awaits his return to work. This is why he came back out here - why he bought two sandwiches instead of one and chose to eat on an uncomfortable bench out in the cool autumn air rather than stay in the cafeteria. Because this strange teenager with the violin and the mop of tangled black curls reminds him there's a world outside the confines of Barts. Reminds him that beyond the anguished families and slowly-dying patients there's concertos and made-up names and real gratitude for something so simple as a stranger buying you lunch.

Silence fills the space between them once more. After a moment, John finally speaks again.

"Will you be here again tomorrow?"

Sherlock blinks and turns his head to regard him curiously. "Would you like me to be?"

John smiles as he finishes the last of his meal, rolls the clingfilm up into a ball and tosses it into the bin nearby.

"Yes," he answers. "I really would."


	3. Three

It's the third day in a row he's come to Barts, loitering by the side entrance with his violin and a book. Sometimes he plays, but this area sports more surveillance than most so busking is difficult. The lack of funds is set to become a problem rather soon - he should really go back to hanging about one of the tube stations, a street corner or honestly _anywhere_ else.

But... he doesn't want to go somewhere else. He wants to see John again.

Pathetic as it is, Sherlock finds he genuinely enjoys the company of the easily-impressed medical student. John seems convinced that Sherlock is some sort of savant, endlessly awestruck by even the simplest of observations. It's a marked change from home, where he'd always been second-best to Mycroft no matter what he noticed or accomplished. And _certainly_ different from Vincent, who couldn't care less what Sherlock does so long as he continues to identify undercover policemen and comes up with new strategies to thwart the Met's ever-pathetic anti-drugs crusade.

Ugh, speaking of drugs. Sherlock leans his head back against the (rather uncomfortable) armrest of their usual public bench, blinking blearily into the dull haze of early-morning fog stretching like an endless abyss above his face. That batch of coke had been... unexpectedly potent. He'd stupidly mixed up a hit before testing the purity, overshot the correct dose by an _absurd_ margin and now lay quietly willing his uncooperative body to stop trying to work itself into a seizure. How long until John is due out? Fifteen minutes? Ten? _Fuck_, he's not even sure how long he's been lying out here. His brain feels frozen; trapped in a block of crystalline ice. Attempting to keep track of the time is pointless because the concept of time has lost all meaning.

Seconds or minutes or centuries pass. He's staring thoughtlessly into the fog (which has begun to thin into mist with the rays of a slowly-rising sun) when a face appears above him.

"Oh," he says blankly. It takes a few seconds longer than usual, but he quickly identifies the boyish features and sandy brownish-blond hair of his new medical acquaintance. "Hello John."

John is staring down at him with a strange expression. Some odd mixture halfway between disappointment and exasperation. With perhaps just a hint of disturbed fascination. Sherlock blinks once and wonders how dilated his pupils are. Enormous, probably. He takes a stab at guessing the exact size based on the relative brightness of the still-lit streetlamp near the stairs, but quickly gives up when he realises he doesn't care.

Above him John heaves a resigned sigh. "Guess I probably should've known," he mutters. Difficult to pinpoint the emotion - flat, unsurprised. Not _quite_ disappointed... but very close to it.

Disappointment... yet another emotion Sherlock has precious little experience with. Not because he's never done anything to disappoint anyone, _lord _no - he is, after all, currently lying on a public bench whilst utterly off his face on cocaine. It's difficult to get much more disappointing than that. But his predilection toward making astoundingly poor decisions has never been a problem before, because until now nobody has ever expected anything differently of him. Amongst his siblings Sherlock is defined by his insanity. Mycroft is perfect. Enola is charming. Sherlock is... strange.

For as long as he can remember he's been the 'odd one'. Prone to getting stuck in trees, tangled in poison oak or trapped in cramped spaces he should never have been exploring in the first place. People _expect_ him to do stupid, absurd things. Hell, if Mycroft were to find him now - high as a kite and more or less incapable of coherent thought - he'd never be _disappointed_. Annoyed, most likely, and perhaps a bit smug (because even though the older man won't admit it Sherlock knows he's been predicting this outcome for years). But disappointed? No, never.

John, though... John looks genuinely let down. And it's strange, because despite the massive cocaine buzz Sherlock is finding himself feeling somehow... remorseful? He hadn't meant to upset the man. Hadn't meant to do anything at all, really, besides stave off withdrawal for a few more hours. Getting massively high had been an honest mistake.

"I'm sorry," he hears himself mumble. "Messed up the dose, more pure than I thought. M'not usually so..." he trails off with a vague wave of his hand, which flops back down over his stomach as the movement is too much bother. He tries a shrug instead. "Sorry."

John stares at him with that crestfallen look for a few seconds more. If he were any closer to sober Sherlock would be sinking in on himself with guilt. As it is he feels a faint twinge of something unpleasant, but past the surge of dopamine nothing is as bad as it could be. He's just opening his mouth to apologise again (always easiest, when he has no idea what to do - just keep saying 'sorry' until things are alright again) when John's face softens into a small, bemused smile.

"You're really out of it, huh?" he asks. His voice is still a bit melancholy but distinctly light in tone. And that's... so very strange.

"You're not angry?" Sherlock responds blankly. It occurs to him that perhaps John simply doesn't know the appropriate reaction. How many drug addicts can a medical student know, after all? So he tries to explain. "You're supposed to be angry. And then give up and leave me to, er... forge my own sordid demise, I think he said."

"Who said?" John inquires, looking bafflingly _not-angry _as he lightly prods Sherlock's legs out of the way to free space to sit down.

"Mycroft," Sherlock mumbles. He blinks and raises his head to try and see John better. Can't, not from this angle. He'll have to sit up. The process takes only a few seconds but it feels like forever.

"Your brother?" John asks curiously. "He said that?"

Finally the junior doctor's face pulls into the correct expression of disappointed anger. Only... it doesn't seem to be directed at Sherlock at all. How confusing.

"Something like that," Sherlock replies after a moment to get his bearings. His head is swimming a bit - heart rate's too fast, probably, messing with his blood pressure. "I wasn't entirely coherent at the time so I don't precisely recall the exact words. It's Mycroft though so they were probably a load of spurious bullshit wrapped up in a ball of condescension so thick you'd need an oil drill to reach the bloody point of it all."

John snorts in amusement, then shakes his head with a small laugh. "You've got a real way with words, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinks. Glances sidelong at John. Was that a... compliment? He _thinks_ it might possibly have been... but then that might just be the chemicals making him over-optimistic. He reminds himself to always expect the worst. Was probably sarcasm, he thinks, and he just missed it. Nobody actually _likes_ it when he talks.

It occurs to him that he should respond with some sort of comment, but by the time he remembers how conversations are meant to work it's been well over a minute and the time for a reply has passed. John is leaning back against the backrest of the bench now, staring into the middle distance with a contemplative expression on his handsome face. Sherlock doesn't really know what to do, so he settles for drawing his legs up to his chest and resting his chin on his knees while he watches the man beside him. John is really quite fascinating, he thinks, for an Ordinary Person. As he stares he feels the creeping frost of cocaine begin to take hold of his brain once more.

"It's rude to stare, you know," John remarks after a few moments. Or centuries? The world is beginning to freeze again. Time makes very little sense.

Sherlock blinks. (Very slowly, it seems to him, but he's sure the speed was normal.)

"If you were interested in appropriate social interaction you shouldn't have initiated an ongoing association with a maladjusted street busker," he hears himself say. Never really made the conscious decision to utter any of that, but it's fine because it came out well regardless. His brain is astoundingly good at making him sound coherent even when he's feeling anything but.

John laughs again. "Good point," he concedes. Glances over to Sherlock with a smile. _Smiling_... why is he smiling? Sherlock finds himself growing very confused. People shouldn't smile at him, not like that. Not in a _friendly_ way.

"Why did you?" he asks, voice coming out more lost and plaintive than he'd intended.

"Why did I what?"

"Associate with me," Sherlock clarifies with a slight frown of annoyance at John's inability to follow his thought process. "You keep returning. Why?"

John shoots him a strange, sidelong look. "I could ask you the same thing."

Sherlock opens his mouth... but he has no reply. Nothing he could _say_, anyway. He returns because he _wants_ to, because John is the first pleasant company he's had in... well in _ever_, really. And because despite all protests to the contrary Sherlock is in fact quite alarmingly vulnerable to the common human condition of loneliness.

But John... John has friends, and colleagues, and work and a family and people who care for him. Sherlock can read it all over his face, his clothes, his mannerisms. John isn't alone, isn't desperate. So why...?

"I associate with you because I like you," John says suddenly, cutting into Sherlock's thoughts. "Isn't that enough?"

Sherlock frowns again. Something deep in his subconscious tells him to argue - tells him that _nobody _likes him. It's a trick or a joke and he should be _wary_, should put up his guard, or leave. Should drive John away before the man's inevitable betrayal cuts another scour into the already-fragile landscape of his psyche.

But he doesn't do anything. The impulse is overpowered - whether by the cocaine or something else, he can't tell. Instead he feels his face shifting into a small smile.

"I suppose it is," he concedes.

"Well good then," John says. "Because I'm buying you lunch again today, and I don't feel like having a philosophical discussion on why."

Sherlock nods, then wrinkles his nose. "Not turkey this time," he mutters. "I don't like turkey."

John barks out a short laugh. "You don't? Then why'd you eat it yesterday?"

"Because you brought it to me."

John blinks, looks over to him. Sherlock turns his head to meet his gaze.

A second's pause... and they both smile.


	4. Four

He supposes it was inevitable, really. The drugs.

To be honest he should've known from the start. Why else would a genius teenager be wandering the streets busking for spare change instead of studying at some prestigious university? There's no other explanation but drug addiction. He'd just been fooling himself into thinking a mind like Sherlock's would somehow be immune to so mundane a plight as chemical dependency.

John sighs to himself as he stares down at the rows of sandwiches in the cold-cuts display. Carefully reads each label until he finds one marked 'ham', then picks up a second marked 'roast beef' in case Sherlock turns out to not be fond of pork products either. Lastly he grabs up a couple of water bottles from the fridge case and moves off toward the front counter to pay. In a few minutes the nurses will switch shifts, and he wants to be well out of here before that happens.

"Oi, John!"

John looks up from the business of fishing a five-pound note out of his wallet, spotting the portly frame of Mike Stamford jogging up to him.

"Hey Mike," he says, pasting on a friendly smile for his classmate.

Be pleasant, he reminds himself. Affable, kind, don't make a fuss. Mike isn't usually one to engage in idle gossip but John's learnt very quickly to trust no one in this environment. Too many students jockeying for too few jobs, each and every one of them perfectly willing to stab their fellows in the back for the chance at a prestigious internship.

"Two sarnies again today?" Mike asks with a teasing grin as he falls into step beside John, who's finished paying for his lunches and begun to move toward the side exit. "Got a special someone waiting on a picnic, eh?"

"Something like that," John answers vaguely. It's accurate, anyway, if one ignores the obvious implications.

Mike's smile widens. "Oh? Well I'm sure he's a nice lad. Always thought him a bit of a nutter myself, but to each his own I suppose!"

John stops short. "Wait. You know Sherlock?" he half-sputters. He hadn't been aware anyone in the hospital had paid more than a passing glance to the ghostlike violinist.

"Sherlock? Is that his name?" Mike replies with a blink of surprise. "He's actually introduced himself to you? Wow, mate, I was just joshing, didn't know you were _actually-_"

"Mike," John snaps, cutting the other man off before he can finish whatever lewd innuendo he was about to come up with. "First off, I'm not gay. Secondly he's about sixteen. And thirdly how in the _hell_ do you even know who I'm planning to eat lunch with?"

Mike laughs and reaches up to clap John lightly on the shoulder. "Oh don't look like that, Johnny, I'm not spying on you or anything! Taub needed a consult report brought round to the other building and I happened to spot you two sitting together. Looked rather sweet, really."

"Mike, _please_ don't start spreading rumours that I'm dating a teenage boy," John groans, grimacing with dread. As if his romantic prospects weren't bad _enough_ thanks to work hours and studying, now he'll likely have half the hospital thinking he's some sort of gay paedophile.

But Mike just laughs good-naturedly. "What? _God_, no, John! I wouldn't dream of it!" he assures. "We're all in this together, yeah? Honest to god really all I wanted to say was, well, I think you're doing a good thing."

"Yeah?" John replies, blinking. "How so?"

Mike shrugs. "Well, you know. I've seen that kid around. Talked to him a few times actually, he seems like a decent lad. Barking mad, of course, and rude as anything, but..." he tucks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels with a quirked, slightly melancholy smile. "Still sad to see him all on his own like that, isn't it? Nice to see someone's willing to reach out."

John returns Mike's smile, feeling slightly awkward about the whole situation. Should he explain that he'd only started talking to Sherlock as an excuse to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the hospital's gossip mill? No, no... that probably wouldn't go over well. Instead he quirks a sort of self-depreciating smirk and shakes his head.

"Honestly Mike, he's just pleasant company. I'm not out for the sainthood or anything."

Mike snorts in amused disbelief. "_Pleasant company?_ You have actually spoken to him?"

"Yes, I have," John responds flatly. He knows Mike's just joking, but the jab annoys him regardless. All he can see is the look of utter confusion on Sherlock's face whenever John says anything even remotely resembling a compliment - like the boy has no idea how to process praise. It's a lifetime of comments like Mike's, John thinks, that turn a 'decent lad' into a drug addict. "He's a bloody _genius_, actually," he continues in a tone perhaps a touch on the defensive side, "and he's not even that rude."

Mike's grinning. "Sorry, sorry. Meant no offence," he says easily, shrugging again. After a second he chuckles. "Well I suppose I'd best get out of your hair then, eh? Want me to tell the others you're out with a nice girl or something?"

"That... yeah, that would probably be best," John replies. He arranges his face into something approaching a grateful smile. "Thanks, Mike."

"Anytime." Mike grins, flashes him a silly half-salute and turns to saunter off toward a table where the rest of their classmates have begun to gather.

John lets out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding and continues toward the side exit.

Sherlock isn't on the bench. After a brief thrill of fear that the boy's run off, John spots a pair of scuffed trainers sticking out by the side of the stairs. He leans his head over the railings and follows the line of long, jeans-clad legs up until he spots the gangly teenager stretched out on the grass next to the corner formed by the wall and the staircase.

"Isn't that cold?" he asks. The grass is damp, probably half-freezing in the chilly fall air. Sherlock is leaning with his upper body against the brickwork of the building with his legs crossed in front of him. His head is bowed, chin to chest, with his tangled mane of chin-length dark curls shadowing his face and his arms crossed over his once-formal black school jumper.

"Sherlock?" John tries again when there's no response to his question. He descends the last few steps and moves around the railings to crouch in front of the teenager. Sherlock's... asleep? John finds himself grinning in fond amusement. The boy might be sixteen or seventeen (John can't quite bring himself to place the kid as eighteen - too lanky and awkward) but with his face slackened in unconsciousness and lacking his normal air of aloof poise he looks about twelve.

"Keep staring and I'll tell my brother you're a terrorist," Sherlock suddenly mumbles, not opening his eyes. John rocks back on his heels in shock, but quickly recovers with a quiet chuckle.

"How long have you been awake, then?" he asks. Takes a quick glance behind him and, seeing nothing but grass, lowers himself to sit on the ground. The wet mulch instantly soaks through his trousers but he ignores it - they're only a bit damp and he can always grab a new pair of scrubs when he returns to work.

Sherlock groans lightly and opens one eye. "About five seconds," he admits churlishly. With a wide yawn he lifts one hand and rubs at his face, then opens both eyes and blinks groggily at John.

"I got one ham, and one roast beef," John offers, holding up the sandwiches. Sherlock blinks again and very slowly reaches out to take the one with roast beef.

"I'm not hungry," he mumbles toward the food as John hands over one of the water bottles as well.

"Too bad. Eat anyway," John quips. "You're about six foot tall and, what? Eight stone at best?"

"Nine stone," Sherlock mutters irritably.

"That's still underweight. Eat up."

Sherlock screws his face up in displeasure but picks at the clingfilm anyway. He's making no effort to get it unwrapped in any reasonable window of time, but John's not about to start nagging. He has an older sister, after all - knows the annoyance of constant pestering is just about the _worst _way to persuade people to do things. Instead he decides to focus on something else... like, say, the fact that Sherlock looks about ready to fall asleep again.

"D'you want me to go in and get you a coffee or something?" John asks as the teenager yawns for the third time in as many minutes.

Sherlock shakes his head groggily. "Won't help," he mumbles. "Not strong enough."

Ah. John feels his face begin to shift into a disapproving frown. He takes a bite of the ham sandwich he's just unwrapped.

"You didn't have to let yourself crash," he says, trying to go for a casual tone. As if talking about hard drugs is about as interesting as the weather. Somehow he ends up sounding more uncomfortable than anything. "I wouldn't have minded if you were, er... you know..."

"High?" Sherlock supplies blandly. He's given up on his sandwich in favour of opening the water bottle instead.

John frowns. "Well, maybe a bit less than this morning would be nice." He huffs a sigh and shoves a hand through his hair. "I mean, I'm not exactly thrilled about it either way, but amphetamines aren't really something you want to-"

"_Amphetamines?_" Sherlock repeats scathingly, cutting him off. "You think I'm on speed?"

John shrugs. "Crack, then?" he hedges. He really doesn't have much knowledge of the outward symptoms of the different street drugs. It's not his speciality; he's no psychiatrist or even a pharmacologist, so aside from the basics of stimulants-versus-depressants he's essentially clueless. Sherlock's pupils this morning had been verging on eight millimetres, he'd been paler than death and seemed prone to (bafflingly articulate, granted, but still intoxicant) rambling. All signs pointed to stimulants. But beyond that, who could tell?

Sherlock scoffs. "Crack is disgusting," he sneers. "I prefer to keep my teeth, thank you."

"Oh. Well that's... good, I s'pose." John takes another bite of his sandwich and shrugs. "Look, I'm studying trauma surgery," he explains. "I'm not going to know what cocktail of drugs you're on from a ten minute conversation at six in the morning."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm not studying _anything _and I'd still be able to identify cocaine intoxication at a glance. It's not exactly rocket science."

"Can't all be supergeniuses like you, Sherlock." John smiles to show he hadn't intended the comment to be hurtful, and reaches out to gently nudge the abandoned roast beef sandwich closer to Sherlock's thigh. "Eat your lunch."

Sherlock's expression seems caught between confused and flattered again (with just a hint of annoyance at the reminder to eat). John finds himself thinking back on the conversation with Mike. How many people, he wonders, hold opinions like the portly medical student's? _Barking mad, of course..._ But he's not, really. Not at all. Sherlock might be a bit _eccentric,_ but considering the circumstances one can hardly blame him. After all, lord only knows what series of events managed to reduce a posh-sounding teenager to the level of a street urchin. They can't have been pleasant.

Not that John hasn't heard enough clues by now to figure some of it out, of course. Bullying, he thinks, definitely; and at least some level of familial neglect. Because really, what kind of brother just tells his teenaged sibling to go and 'forge your own demise'? The line still shoots a bolt of hot anger through John's mind just thinking about it. Regardless of his oft-strained relationship with his sister, John knows he'd protect Harry with his_ life_ if she were ever in trouble - whether by outside forces or her own actions. It shouldn't matter either way; family is family. The fact that this 'Mycroft' character just up and left his brother to fend for himself is like a... a _slap in the face_ to the very concept of siblinghood. If John ever has a chance to meet the bastard he'll-

"Shut up," Sherlock says suddenly, cutting into John's thoughts.

John blinks. "I didn't say anything."

"You were _thinking,_" Sherlock grumbles irritably. "It's annoying. Shut up."

John laughs and shakes his head. Alright, so maybe Mike was right about one thing at least - Sherlock has about as much tact as your average brick.

"I'll stop thinking when you eat that sandwich," he offers glibly.

Sherlock scowls. "That's bribery."

"Yep," John agrees. "Now eat."

Sherlock glowers. A moment's sulking, though, and he grudgingly does as he's told.

"Your cafeteria makes terrible sandwiches," he gripes after a few bites. John shrugs.

"We could go somewhere else if you like," he suggests. "I'm doing a half-shift tomorrow to cover for Martha, then I'm off until Saturday. We could find a restaurant, maybe?"

Sherlock considers for a moment, frowning, then his expression brightens. "There's a decent Chinese place down by Baker Street."

"Fine with me," John replies, grinning. "Dim sum?"

"Hm," Sherlock confirms offhandedly. "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

John laughs. "No you can't."

"Almost can."

John shakes his head. Sherlock smirks, then launches into an explanation about the relationship between the quality of Chinese food and the lower third of door handles between bites of his sandwich.

_Bloody incredible,_ John thinks to himself, smiling as the lecture washes over him. _Just bloody incredible._


	5. Five

He's sixteen and a half when he decides to leave.

Leave home, leave school, leave _everything._ It's all so pointless. He's sick of studying and he's sick of bullies and he's sick of being ignored by his brother and pestered by his sister. Most of all he's sick of being _him._ The oft-ignored middle child. He's not as smart as Mycroft, not as sociable as Enola. Their parents just seem to forget he's there half the time. The only aspect that sticks out about him is his eccentricity - and that's not really something he likes being known for. He gets enough of that at school, doesn't need to come home for holidays to a house full of relatives describing him as 'strange'.

So he writes a short note of explanation (mostly for Enola, because while she's very smart she's still only eight, and despite how irritating the girl can be he doesn't want to worry her) tosses a change of clothes into a knapsack, picks up his violin and walks away. It's easier than he'd thought it would be. Mycroft sends a few texts, then calls. But a short squabble and some well-timed verbal jabs on Sherlock's part quickly leave the older man insulted enough to give up on him. _Fine, Sherlock, just do what you want._

And he _will_ do what he wants, because he can do _anything_ now. He's free to explore London and busk on street corners and never bloody sleep or eat ever again if he feels like it.

But things never work out that well. Not for anyone, and _certainly _not for him. Soon enough the weather takes a turn for the dismal. (In retrospect he really could have timed his departure better - he'd run off just before the new term. Ideal for avoiding further exposure to the taunts and jeers of his former classmates, but rather poor planning in terms of not being homeless during the onset of a rainy London autumn.) It's cold, wet, and miserable. All he has to keep warm is a black school jumper, having sold his expensive overcoat when it became apparent that the obvious quality of the garment rendered him a target for thieves. After less than a week it becomes undeniable - he needs somewhere to live.

Vince Wechsler is a drugs dealer. Sherlock identifies him in an instant by the way he carries himself. Back straight, accent put-upon and too formal, dark chestnut hair swept slightly to the side in a style meant to appear disarmingly casual. He's attempting to create an air of sophistication, hoping authorities won't become suspicious of his wealth if he acts as if he's got a trust fund hidden away somewhere. The ruse is pathetically transparent.

"You here about the flatshare?" the man asks.

Sherlock confirms with a false smile and a nod, concocts an easy excuse for his slightly dishevelled appearance and uniform jumper. Not for the first time since setting out on his own he thanks whatever stroke of genetics gave him his voice and height; the man in the door gives no indication of having guessed his age.

Sherlock's been turned down twice already by prospective landlords based on nothing but the fact that he's an unemployed teenaged dropout, regardless of what cash he can pay upfront or how posh he manages to make himself sound. Flatshares, he quickly surmises, will be an easier option. Better chance of disguising his youth until such time as he can prove his ability to make rent. Vince is the cheapest listing in the area, so he pools his leftover money from home, pickpockets a few passing tourists to make up the difference, and charms his way into tenancy.

He never counts on finding himself budgeting for quite another expense entirely.

Because while Vince is definitely an idiot in every sense of the word, he's nonetheless a savvy businessman; always on the lookout for potential new customers. And Sherlock is a genius... but he's also sixteen. Sixteen, unemployed (unless one counts busking at tube stations, which he doesn't), and _bored out of his skull._ He already smokes cigarettes - having discovered the cognitive benefits of nicotine a few years ago - and so being that his lungs are on their way to an early grave _anyway _he sees no harm in accepting an offer of a free sample from Vince's stock. Just the once. Who knows, might be interesting.

It comes down to a choice: _uppers, or downers?_ Not a difficult decision to make. He's _bored_, stimulants make things _interesting_, he chooses cocaine.

A more melodramatic individual might describe that as the worst decision of their life. Sherlock prefers to think of it as vaguely inconvenient. Worse things have happened, honestly. And anyway it's not like he's _addicted. _Not at all. He does continue the habit after the first few times; but because it's something to do, not because he _has_ to. Because he's a genius, and geniuses don't do things like get addicted to drugs.

It takes him a good month to even entertain the notion that he might have a problem. He _still _isn't convinced, even as he's forced to supplement his busking funds with more and more proceeds from pickpocketing and petty thievery. It's not as if he couldn't stop if he wanted to... if he _needed_ to. He could. Because withdrawal isn't that bad, not really, all it would take is a healthy dose of willpower. Which he has, so he'll be fine. When it becomes necessary to quit he will. When he _wants_ to quit, he will. But not right now. Obviously. Poor timing, too inconvenient.

Though to be fair, of course, being constantly high isn't all that objectively convenient either. He's lost more weight than he knew he even _had,_ and has finally experienced first-hand the cognitive effects of going a week without sleeping _(well... more like six days, after which he passes out in a back street.) _On the bright side however the artificial boost of dopamine _does_ go quite a long way toward keeping him content with his situation... his situation which, if he's being perfectly honest, has only gotten worse since he started using.

It all starts when Vince discovers what Sherlock is capable of. _(Doesn't take long at all, unfortunately. Probably something to do with the breakneck-eloquent rant Sherlock launched into after that first line of coke - pointing out every single security flaw in the building, identifying places where listening devices could be hidden, listing off every one of Vince's tells in less than a minute. Difficult to go back to feigning average intelligence after a display like that.) _Things escalate quickly, and within a week of their meeting Sherlock realises he's become something very dangerous: he's become _useful._

Soon enough Vince declares them a couple - not because they're actually dating, _god no_. Sherlock finds the man repellent at the best of times, and moreover isn't sure at this point whether he even _cares_ about sex or not, much less which gender he prefers. But their being in a "relationship" gives Vince a plausible excuse to cart his flatmate around to drugs deals without drawing suspicion. Otherwise there would be questions: Why is a teenager trailing around behind a twenty-something dealer? Why does said dealer sometimes draw the teenager aside to a whispered conversation in the midst of a meeting with distributors? How is the unemployed sixteen year old even making enough money for rent and cocaine without a steep discount on either commodity?

The answer to all of those _('because the teenager is a supergenius who can identify undercover police in an instant and knows enough chemistry to conduct potency testing using nothing but assorted household cleaning products')_ is, quite understandably, not the sort of information which should be made widely known. Not if Sherlock wants to avoid finding himself being fought over like a scrap of meat, in any case. So he simply goes along with Vince's cover story (disgusting as it is) and tries not to dwell on the level of power he's inadvertently handed the other man. He'll just walk away when it gets too irritating, he decides. Leave, like he left home.

Too late does he realise that Vince would sooner kill him than let him escape.

All it takes is one mention of John. Not even a _mention_ really, just an allusion. Vince makes some passing remark about knowing a bloke who had seizures after one too many lines. Sherlock, absorbed with trying to find a strong enough signal to connect his mobile to the internet, unthinkingly relays some inane story John had told him about a patient in intensive care. Vince asks where he heard that. Sherlock answers. _A friend._

Things go poorly from there. Sherlock, it seems, is _not allowed_ to have friends. He challenges that assertion with all the venom he can muster whilst high as anything on a massive hit of coke. Meaning, of course, that he simply starts snickering. Vince is angry... but Vince is an _idiot _and quite frankly it's _hilarious_ when he gets angry. The man's so convinced of his own menace, all bluster and threats. Absolutely _pathetic_ when compared with the cold fury of Mycroft in a proper snit.

One thing Mycroft would never do, though, is hit him. The fist to the side of the face takes Sherlock by surprise _(shouldn't have, really, he'd been an idiot to miss the signs; though in his defence he was _extremely_ high) _and before he can think to retaliate he's already on the floor. Manages to counter the next blow, but he's at a severe disadvantage - Vince is older, better-muscled, and has more fighting experience than an aristocratic public school dropout could ever dream of. The scuffle lasts a solid five minutes. Finally, through luck or skill or just plain desperation, Sherlock lands a well-placed kick to the groin.

While Vince is incapacitated he scrambles to grab his violin case, snatches up a jumper off the coat rack by the door, and runs.


	6. Six

**A/N: **_And we're back to where the story began! This isn't the end, don't worry. We're just finally caught up to the in medias res. Things should progress in a more linear manner from here on out. Also I finally have a plot, so that's good I guess._

* * *

"Thanks again for covering for me, Mike."

"Don't mention it, John! See you Monday!"

John sighs to himself as he hangs up his phone. Looks over to the clock on his bedside table – barely eight in the evening. Normally around now he'd be sitting on the sofa with a medical journal, perhaps watching a bit of crap telly before bed. Not tonight, however.

No, tonight there's an injured teenager going through cocaine withdrawal taking up residence in his sitting room.

He sets his phone on the nightstand and glances toward the half-open door of his bedroom. He can just barely make out a lump of blankets on the couch, buried under which is a very cranky sixteen year old. Sherlock seems to be one of those people who prefers to burrow themselves into a cocoon rather than use bedding in the normal manner... he _also_ seems to be the sort of person to get snappish and angry when they're hurt, which has not at all been improved by the whole crashing-off-coke thing, and so John's rather wisely retreated to his room to give the boy some space.

Tomorrow's the weekend, which tends to be marginally slower at work, so he doesn't feel too bad about asking one of his colleagues to work in his place. Mike had been perfectly understanding when John had explained the situation, in wholehearted agreement that leaving an emotionally distraught, detoxing teenager alone in his flat for an entire workday would probably not be the best course of action. John's now got the next two days off… a veritable _holiday_ compared to his usual hectic work schedule. He has a feeling he won't get much in the way of relaxing done, though.

He resists the urge to sigh again and instead leans over the side of his bed to retrieve the laptop he'd abandoned there the other night. If he's going to do this, he's going to at least try and do it right. And the root of every successful project is research. He opens the internet browser and navigates to Google. Soon enough he's staring at pages and pages of articles on cocaine detoxification.

For the next five hours he does nothing but read.

**:::**

Sherlock is still asleep by the time John wakes up. Despite having been awake well into the night devouring facts about cocaine he still finds himself (however unwillingly) conscious at precisely five-thirty in the morning, alarm or no alarm. His body seems to run on military precision whether he wants it to or not.

Around six o'clock he finally gives up on going back to sleep and, yawning, gets up to see about perhaps finding a way to make tea without disturbing the miserable lump of blankets on the sofa. He hasn't taken two steps into the kitchen however when his efforts to remain relatively silent are proven pointless.

"You walk like a _bloody elephant,_" Sherlock's voice grumbles from the sitting room. John startles slightly and turns around to see the sixteen year old glaring at him from under one of the half-dozen afghans he seems to have acquired over the course of the night.

John blinks, raising his eyebrows slightly at the sight of his sofa-turned-woolen-mountain. "I didn't even know I owned that many blankets."

"Your grandmother sends you one every year," Sherlock informs him irritably. He offers no explanation for how he's figured such a thing out, and John doesn't bother asking. He's become _far_ too used to the teenager mysteriously obtaining all manner of facts about his life and habits over the last month of their 'ongoing association' (as Sherlock still insists on terming it, regardless of John's assurance that they do, in fact, count as friends now). Sherlock could rattle off John's bloody bank number at this point and elicit no more of a reaction than _'good on you'_ – a fact which seems to both delight and infuriate the boy in equal measures.

Getting no response to his deduction Sherlock huffs and tugs the swatch of knitted fabric back over his head. John allows himself a fond smile at the subsequent stream of annoyed grumbling– apparently he's unable to navigate a kitchen without sounding like _'a bloody jetplane crashing headlong into a construction zone which is erecting a fully-operational composite of every belltower in the city right next to a trainyard and a zoo.'_

"Three sugars?" John asks as he pours tea into a pair of mismatched mugs. He vaguely remembers Sherlock dumping something like fifteen packets of sugar into his coffee cup the last time they'd gone to a restaurant for lunch.

Sherlock stops his litany of complaining long enough to grumble something to the affirmative, so John adds the appropriate amount of sugar cubes (with a slight grimace for how it must taste –more like cola than tea, probably; for all Sherlock's insistence that he's above such things as age-related stereotypes the boy's definitely still a teenager at heart) and heads into the sitting room.

"Budge up then," he orders, prodding the lump of blankets in an effort to free up space on the sofa. It occurs to him that he really ought to invest in an armchair.

Sherlock mutters something likely quite rude (though John doesn't catch enough to know for sure) and hauls himself into a sitting position. The afghan falls off his head to puddle with the others around his legs as he scowls balefully up at John. His hair is a tangled mess of wild curls and his clothing is rumpled beyond belief, making him look rather a lot like an oversized, petulant toddler.

"What the hell are you smirking about?" the boy snaps, snatching the mug John's holding toward him and hunching his shoulders as he takes a careful sip of the still-hot liquid.

John tries and fails to wipe the amused grin off his face.

"Nothing," he quips blithely. Sherlock eyes him with a dubious glare but John ignores it. Takes a seat on the sofa next to his teenaged companion and blows on his tea to cool it instead.

After a moment Sherlock huffs to himself and settles back against the couch cushions, drawing his legs up to his chest with an expression very close to a sullen pout. He's still wearing the same clothes from last night – the pair of faded jeans he seems to practically live in (John's fairly sure the boy doesn't even own another pair of trousers) and a dark grey hooded sweatshirt in place of his usual frayed school jumper. The sleeves are a bit too long and the hem hangs well below his beltline, adding to the overall impression of a grumpy child rather than the poised young man John's used to.

"Did something happen to your jumper?" John asks after a moment of somewhat-companionable silence.

Sherlock shrugs, swirling his tea. "Didn't fit anymore." He takes a sip and scowls at nothing, then elaborates with an annoyed, "Too short in the sleeves."

"Still not finished growing then, huh?" John says with a slight smirk. Sherlock's been adamantly asserting that he's _'done with puberty, thank you very much'_ ever since John brought the topic up during lunchtime conversation nearly a fortnight ago.

Predictably Sherlock shoots him a venomous glower. "Evidently not," he bites out.

John glances over at him, wondering if he can judge exactly how tall the boy is now even when he's curled up like that, and catches sight of Sherlock's hands instead. They're shaking – not much, but with the mug of tea held in a death grip between them even the slight movement is obvious. He flicks his eyes to the teenager's jawline and notes the taught muscles as Sherlock fights to avoid grinding his teeth in agitation.

Sensing the scrutiny, Sherlock's gaze slides over to meet John's with a challenging stare. A second's tense silence stretches between them before John finally heaves a resigned sigh.

"Open the window first," he concedes reluctantly. Sherlock's smoking habit has become something of a point of contention between them – John doesn't approve in the slightest, and Sherlock is completely uninterested in trying to quit – but trying to force the boy to go through both cocaine withdrawal _and _nicotine cravings at the same time would just be cruel.

Sherlock sets down his tea mug and practically bolts for the window, digging a lighter and a slightly-squashed packet of cigarettes out of his pocket as he does so. John rolls his eyes as the teenager throws the window open and perches on the ledge with the flame of his lighter already to the fag between his lips.

"I still don't understand how you even manage to buy those things," John remarks, mostly to himself.

Sherlock scoffs. "Fake IDs aren't exactly a challenge to acquire." A moment later something seems to occur to him, and he glances behind him at the sky, which is growing steadily lighter with an early sunrise. He looks back round to John. "Why aren't you at work?"

"Took the weekend off," John explains, shrugging. "Mike agreed to cover for me."

Sherlock blinks at him, apparently confused. "You had plans with someone?"

"Nope." John quirks a slightly pitying smile as Sherlock fixes him with a questioning look. An entire _month_ they've known each other and Sherlock still can't seem to process the idea that someone might legitimately care about his well-being. "Just figured you could use some company."

Sherlock stares blankly at him through the thin wisps of smoke drifting off his cigarette. John tries not to let the half-truth of his words show in his body language. Of course it doesn't work – Sherlock's eyes narrow in realisation within half a second.

"You're hoping to get me off cocaine," the boy asserts in a flat voice.

John winces very slightly.

"It... seemed like a good opportunity?" he tries. Sherlock looks distinctly unimpressed. John runs a hand through his hair rather awkwardly. _God,_ how does he even get himself into these situations? First it's Harry drinking everyone out of house and home and now he's gone and befriended a _cocaine addict_, of all things. "Look, I just–"

"Fine."

John cuts off and blinks at Sherlock, who's busy taking an unnecessarily-dramatic drag off his cigarette.

"Fine…?" he repeats in a slightly befuddled tone.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yes, _fine._ The habit was becoming inconvenient anyway."

"You… what, just like that?" John presses in disbelief. He'd been expecting some sort of argument. "Just… fine?"

"Yes!" Sherlock snaps, irritably flapping the hand not holding his cigarette. He glares at John. "I am not some pathetic _addict_, John, I can quit whenever I want to. And as you so _astutely _pointed out, this is a convenient opportunity to do so. Ergo: _fine._"

John raises his eyebrows at the 'not an addict' comment, glancing meaningfully at the lit fag in the boy's hand. Sherlock narrows his eyes in a wordless _'shut up' _and takes another drag.

"Well if you're sure," John cedes with a half-shrug. "I'm not trying to force you into anything."

"Oh _bullshit_," Sherlock quips with an annoyed sneer. "You were fully prepared to attempt to badger me into agreeing with you whether I liked it or not, otherwise my pre-emptive compliance wouldn't have startled you into repeating my words like a parrot." He takes a final pull off his cig and stubs it out on the outer frame of the window, which already sports numerous charred marks from a previous tenant doing the same thing. "You also spent the majority of last night reading up on the process of cocaine detoxification."

"How...?" John starts, then stops and shakes his head. This isn't the time for some convoluted explanation of Sherlock's deductive process. "Never mind. So you're okay with going cold turkey then?"

"Perfectly," Sherlock assures, imperiously crossing his arms as if daring John to challenge him. They stare each other down for a long moment... before John suddenly (and quite inappropriately, considering the situation at hand) finds himself stifling a fit of amused laughter. It's _ridiculous_ but he honestly can't help it – it's just the juxtaposition of the too-serious subject matter with Sherlock's wildly-untidy hair, the oversized sweatshirt and the lack of shoes and just...

Sherlock's expression falls into an affronted sort of half-pout, which only serves to make him look even more hilariously immature. _"What?"_

"Sorry, sorry," John sniggers, holding up his palms in apology. "You just look like a little kid, that's all."

"I do _not_ look like a little kid." Sherlock's statement is completely contradicted by his petulant tone and the look of childish indignation on his too-young face. John snorts and covers his mouth in a failed attempt to avoid bursting into giggles.

"I _don't!"_ the teenager cries over John's snickering.

John just laughs harder.


	7. Seven

Everything's shit and he feels like shit.

That's literally the only vestige of emotion he can dredge up at the moment. Nothing but a massive, all-encompassing deluge of _'this is fucking awful'_. His head hurts and his chest hurts and even his _bloody muscles_ hurt and everything just _sucks_.

"Alright?" John asks for the second time in an hour. Sherlock whips around from where he'd been clutching at the windowsill with a white-knuckled grip, glaring at the buildings outside. The movement proves to be too fast for his brain to keep up with and he ends up staggering slightly to fall against the windowpanes behind him. Sensations of electric shocks run up and down his spine, arcing in snaps of acute pain where his back touches the cold glass.

"Perfectly _fucking_ fine!" he snarls in John's direction, doing his best to hide the agonised wince as he carefully straightens his posture. Balancing is proving difficult, the shocks won't stop, everything continues to hurt. It hasn't even been a full twenty four hours yet and Sherlock is already _severely _regretting his decision to go through with this whole detoxing business.

Across the room John lowers the medical journal he'd been reading and raises his eyebrows.

"Fuck off!" Sherlock snaps before the older man can say anything. John obligingly keeps his mouth shut and raises his journal again, an action which effectively blocks out the vicious glower Sherlock's fixed him with. After a second the boy lets his face twist into a grimace and reaches up to tug at his hair, only to immediately stop as the action just makes the shocks more pronounced.

_Argh._ Just... _fucking fuck,_ why does this have to hurt so badly? He bites back a groan and slides down to sit with his back to the wall beneath the window, pillowing his head with his arms on top of his knees. Oh god he doesn't want to do this. It hurts and it's going to go on _forever_ and he can't bloody deal with it. Plus on top of everything else it's absolutely _torturous_ knowing that a single hit of cocaine would make it all stop. It would take _literally seconds_, one tiny injection, half a minute at the most to wait for the high to kick in, and then hours upon blissful hours of _not feeling like shit._

Why is he even _doing _this anyway? What the fuck is the point? For John? Who gives a shit about John? They've known each other for all of a month, and the stupid bastard hasn't even figured out yet that Sherlock is _insane._ Soon enough the medical student will go off to other things, will forget all about the psychotic teenager he'd once claimed to be friends with, and Sherlock will have gone through all this for _nothing._

"Sherlock?" John's voice is suddenly much closer than Sherlock anticipates, and the teenager's head jerks up with an alarmed start. Somehow the older man is now crouched in front of him - Sherlock has no idea why or how or when John even _moved_ and the lack of awareness of his surroundings just puts him further on edge. Makes him distrustful of himself and his body and even _more_ furious with the state of his life and the whole damned world in general.

John's saying something but Sherlock's too busy screwing his eyes shut in pain and frustration to listen. A gentle hand on his shoulder sends sparks of white-hot electric pain through his nervous system and he flinches violently.

"_Stop!_" he screeches as he slaps the hand away. In a flash of vicious fury his eyes snap open and he springs to his feet, nearly sending John sprawling with the abrupt movement. Doesn't do Sherlock much good either - the change in elevation makes his head reel and he covers his face with his arms in some sort of unconscious, ridiculous attempt to block out the sickening sense of vertigo. "No no _no no no no_ I don't want to do this anymore I quit I give up this is _stupid_ fuck this fuck it fuck everything _fuck you!_"

He screams the last words and whips his hands off his head to shove John in the chest, because the man has straightened up with a concerned expression on his face and Sherlock has frankly had it right up to fucking _here_ with John and his bloody concern.

John takes the shove with barely a shift in his stance - he may be a few inches shorter than Sherlock but his frame is far more dense, and proves practically impossible for the reedy teenager to knock over. Sherlock bares his teeth in a furious expression and goes to throw a punch instead. He's not entirely sure why, or what he even thinks the action will accomplish, but he's _angry_ and lashing out seems like the only option that makes sense anymore. Some part of him knows he doesn't want to hurt John - doesn't want to drive away the closest thing to a friend he's ever had - but that tiny voice of reason seems to have been quite thoroughly drowned out by the overwhelming cacophony of screaming crackling electric needling _pain. _All he wants to do is destroy everything in his path until the world decides to stop torturing him.

John remains completely, _infuriatingly_ calm in the face of Sherlock's assault. He simply catches the boy's fist, grabs his other arm before he can go for a left hook and presses their now-intertwined hands together in a secure grip between them. Sherlock finds himself effectively pinned where he stands.

"Calm down, Sherlock. You're working yourself into a fit," John admonishes in a placating tone. Sherlock snarls at him and tries to tug his hands free.

"I am not _having a fit!_" he yells. John doesn't look convinced - and also _doesn't fucking let go of his hands_, so Sherlock rages on. "I'm _not! _I am simply _tired of feeling like shit_ and this was a fucking _stupid_ idea anyway and who the fuck cares if you don't like it you're just going to hate me eventually like everyone else and I should never have trusted you I don't want to do this I _don't _I just want to-" he chokes off, feeling a pricking sensation behind his eyes. He swallows convulsively in an effort to dispel the looming tears.

"You want to what...?" John presses quietly as Sherlock begins to sag in his grip.

Finally the teenager just gives up and lets his head drop, coming to rest against John's shoulder. All the rage seems to have drained out of him; the only feeling left is a deep sense of exhaustion. Faint tingles of electricity nevertheless continue to shoot up and down his spine, and before he can stop himself he chokes a pitiful half-sob at the sensation.

"John, make it _stop_," he moans pathetically into John's jumper.

John breathes a sympathetic sigh. After a short pause of deliberation he takes a small step backwards, gently tugging Sherlock in the direction of the sofa.

"It'll be over soon, you know it will. You've just got to wait it out," the older man assures him. His voice somehow manages to sound both soothing and authoritative at the same time. He coerces Sherlock down onto the couch cushions, where the teenager immediately draws his legs up to his chest and curls up into a miserable ball with his hands tangled in his hair and his face pressed into his knees.

"Soon isn't _now_," Sherlock retorts in what should have been a growl but which comes out more like a plaintive whimper. John's busy retrieving one of the abandoned afghans from Sherlock's nest of blankets, which he carefully tucks around the boy's shoulders.

"No, but it's still soon." He straightens back up and by the sounds of his movements Sherlock can tell he's regarding the pitiful teenager on his couch, most likely with one of those stupid morose kicked-puppy expressions he likes to wear whenever Sherlock smokes in front of him. For a brief instant he feels like lashing out and kicking the man - make him _stop fucking staring for fuck's sake_ - but the impulse flits away as quickly as it appeared. Leaves in its wake a dense cloud of exhaustion, hopelessness, frustration and anger. Everything is terrible. He hates the world and the world hates him.

"You know... it might just be easier to try and sleep through the worst of it," John speaks up after a moment's silent study of Sherlock's quivering form. "I've got medicine in the cabinet, could probably knock you out with a few Nytol if you want."

"Thought the entire_ point _of this stupid fucking endeavour was to get me to _stop_ doing drugs," Sherlock retorts venomously. Above him he hears John huff an exasperated breath through his nose.

"I think we can allow a few milligrams of diphenhydramine," he replies in a semi-sarcastic quip. "If anyone asks we'll plead extenuating circumstances."

Sherlock scowls and grits his teeth in agitation. His first instinct is to refuse - his body's already in enough of a_ horrific bloody state_ as it is, introducing even _more_ chemicals sounds like a downright idiotic idea. But then he lifts his head enough to squint blearily up at John, and as he does so any resolve he might have had to continue suffering through this hell seems to melt right out of him. Ugh, sod it, he'll do whatever it fucking takes at this point. Anything, _anything_ to make it stop.

"Fine," he mumbles listlessly, then buries his face back under his arms. John reaches out with a reassuring pat on his shoulder and disappears into the other room.

Twenty torturous minutes and two white pills later Sherlock finally finds himself beginning to sink into a state of blessed unconsciousness.

At some point his head's come to rest on the edge of John's lap, while his lanky body lies curled in a ball beneath a pile of fuzzy woolen blankets on the sofa. The older man's feet are propped up on the coffee table in front of them, a newspaper in one hand while the other cards gently through Sherlock's mop of tangled curls. It's... strangely nice. He wonders vaguely if it would be possible to stay this way forever.

As he drifts off he absently catalogues sensations as they chase lazy circles through his brain. Warmth, comfort... and something else. Something he can't quite identify.

He's just hanging on to the last thread of consciousness when it hits him.

_Safety,_ he realises in a haze of exhausted delirium. _I feel... safe._

Mustering his last bit of energy he turns his head to press his face into John's leg... it smells of tea and hospital antiseptic and laundry detergent. And, somehow, those scents all combine to form the most pervasive sense of comfort Sherlock ever remembers knowing.

Soon enough he shuts his eyes and lets the world fade away.


	8. Eight

John breathes out a tired sigh, lowering his half-folded newspaper to glance down at the teenager curled up beside him. Sherlock's breathing has finally, _finally _steadied out into the regular pattern of sleep, and John would be a tremendous liar if he said he wasn't relieved. Friends or not, he's not exactly been having the time of his life over the course of the past day and a half.

He shakes his head slightly and gently pats his companion's dark curls once more, then lets his hand settle to simply rest on Sherlock's head. He'd started carding his fingers through the boy's startlingly-soft hair about fifteen minutes ago, when Sherlock's head had somehow ended up on John's thigh. It hadn't really been a conscious choice – just something he remembered his mother doing when he was upset as a child. Sherlock hadn't seemed to mind the uninvited contact, though. In fact he'd calmed down almost immediately, went still and silent like he'd been hypnotised. Compared to the hurricane of the last few hours the sudden tranquility had felt like a little slice of heaven, so John had kept the motion up while he finished reading the news.

Now he sets his paper aside and leans his head back to rest on the back of the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. God, he can hardly believe how quickly Sherlock's mental state went downhill. One minute they'd been watching crap telly and playing Cluedo (absolutely _terrible_ suggestion on John's part – Sherlock had refused to follow the rulebook, insisted that the only logical explanation was for the victim to have murdered _themselves_ and then spent a solid hour reconfiguring the entire structure of the game to account for more complex motives and the possibility of triple homicide), then the next thing John knew the boy had been pacing agitatedly around the sitting room, snarling at nothing and flinching away from any and all physical contact with his surroundings.

After a good half-hour or so watching this display John had eventually come up with a rudimentary diagnosis of acute serotonin deficiency. A condition which was… troubling, to say the least. As far as he'd gleaned from his frenzy of research the other night cocaine wasn't supposed to cause serotonin dependence unless the patient had been consuming it on a regular basis for _months._ The teenager had to have been maintaining a near-constant blood concentration of the chemical, keeping himself perpetually intoxicated for weeks on end. And that means this is not, as John had dared hope, a case of recreational use. This is self-medication.

But medication of _what?_ Cocaine's both an anti-depressant and a stimulant, meaning it alleviates a massive spectrum of unrelated mental conditions. Sherlock could very well be narcoleptic, manic-depressive, ADHD - there's just no way to tell. All John can really do at this point is wait for the drugs to clear out of the boy's system and observe his behaviour... and then probably spend another six hours researching whatever symptoms he spots, because _honestly _he's not a bloody psychiatrist.

Not for the first time he finds himself wondering if this is really the best course of action for either of them. John's still in school, for god's sake. He barely has enough time to maintain a healthy sleep schedule let alone look after some possibly-mentally-ill sixteen year old. And Sherlock…_ god_, but he could be so much more than this. The teenager's an utter _genius_, could probably get into Oxford or Cambridge on his A-levels alone if he'd only consent to sitting the tests. But so far he's resisted any attempt John's made at coaxing him back into focusing on his education.

A million and one excuses John's heard over the last few weeks, but he has a sneaking suspicion that the root of it all is nothing more mysterious than simple fear. Fear of failure, fear of rejection… fear of _people_, probably. Sherlock doesn't seem to be particularly fond of the human race in general. John can hardly blame him, considering what the kid's apparently had to put up with over the course of his short life, but hiding on the streets is no way to deal with the problem. One way or another John's got to try to get him back on track.

For the next ten minutes or so these thoughts chase round and round in his head, losing coherency until everything seems to trail off into an indecipherable babble. Eventually John closes his eyes... and what appears to be an instant later blinks them open again to the twilight darkness of an early London morning.

Oh christ, he fell asleep on the sofa.

He bites back a groan and slowly lifts his head up from the couch back, neck stiff and unresponsive while his legs seem to have frozen in their once-comfortable reclined position on the coffee table. Sherlock hasn't moved a muscle, still out like a light with his face buried against John's trouser leg. As gently as possible John shifts his thigh, manages to ease the head of dark curls down to rest on the sofa cushion without waking the boy. (Though to be honest John's not entirely sure it would be possible to rouse Sherlock without a bloody marching band at the moment – kid _really_ reacts strongly to diphenhydramine… have to keep that in mind for future tantrums.) He stifles another noise of discomfort as his body protests the movement, and shuffles his way across his flat to retrieve some aspirin from the medicine cabinet. Then it's time for a shower and tea.

As annoying as his inclination to wake at exactly the same time every day usually is, John finds himself absurdly grateful for it this morning. Despite having completely forgotten to set an alarm he still finds himself with an hour of so before he's due back at work (as he'd suspected – the weekend holiday sailed past in a flurry of distraught teenaged angst) and thus plenty of time to make sure his erstwhile charge ingests some form of sustenance before John's forced to leave the boy to his own devices.

Sherlock is _not_ enthused by being woken up.

"_Piss'ff Myc'oft,"_ the boy slurs tiredly as John prods him in the shoulder.

"Sorry, not your brother," John informs him. The sound of his voice seems to drag Sherlock slightly out of the haze of sleep and he blinks blearily up at John.

"Whatever it is you want, go away," he mumbles. John resists the urge to roll his eyes and brandishes a glass of orange juice above the teenager's face.

"Look, I'm not keen on coming home to a desiccated teenager on my sofa. Drink this and then you can go back to sleep."

"The human body is comprised of seventy percent water, there's no way I'm going to fully dehydrate in less than twenty four hours," Sherlock mutters irritably as he curls tighter into a ball and tugs the blankets around his head. John grabs the topmost one and uncovers the boy's face once more.

"Sherlock, just humour me," he orders in as close to stern as he ever gets with Sherlock. "Which of us is the medical student again?"

"Piss off."

John sets his face in a flat, unimpressed look. Fine, if being authoritative won't work... time for the big guns.

"If you don't drink it I'm going to nick your phone and call your brother."

_That_ gets a proper reaction. Sherlock snaps the blankets off his head and glares up at John.

"You _wouldn't_."

"I would," John assures in an unconcerned tone. "But I won't, if you drink the orange juice."

Sherlock scowls up at him for a moment more, then finally seems to give up. He huffs a sigh, flops forward to lie on his stomach and holds up a hand for the glass with his face buried in the couch cushions. John obligingly hands it over, then watches unsympathetic as Sherlock makes a complete show of reluctantly hauling himself into a sitting position. John finds himself thinking blandly that if Sherlock's really committed to this whole not-going-back-to-school thing he could at the very least make constructive use of his drama-queen tendencies and go into the acting business.

Finally the teenager manages to get himself upright, takes a grumpy sip of his juice and glances over toward the window.

"It's not even light out yet," he grumbles, doing his best to stifle a yawn as he tugs his rumpled sweatshirt off over his head. The action completely musses his hair, and John can't help but think he looks hilariously childlike with his curls sticking every which way like that… and then of course he glances down and the effect is rather ruined by the collection of needle scars decorating the boy's pale forearms.

John startles, then quickly looks away from the track marks – Sherlock's never removed his jumper in John's presence before, and it's easy to see why. Scores of tiny wounds and pinpricks dot the crooks of his elbows and the underside of both wrists. The fact that the teenager's all of a sudden decided to strip to his t-shirt probably indicates all sorts of things about trust and acceptance and a bunch of other assorted psychological inanity that John really isn't in the right frame of mind to decipher right now. Whatever, he decides, it's all fine. Just don't make a fuss and carry on like usual.

With uncharacteristic obliviousness Sherlock takes absolutely no notice of John's brief interlude of internal debate. Instead he's staring blankly out the window, sipping his juice in an almost robotic fashion like he's completely forgotten he's even holding it. John blinks, turns to follow the boy's line of sight. Nothing but a street lamp and some buildings. He turns back, Sherlock's still staring.

"What are you looking at?" John asks curiously, thinking there might be some sort of mysterious crack in his windowsill or other miniscule detail that only Sherlock could possibly notice. But instead of launching into some grand deductive speech the teenager just startles slightly and flicks his eyes to John's face.

"Huh?"

John furrows his brows slightly. "You were staring out the window."

"Oh," Sherlock reaches up to scrub a hand through his hair and yawns. "Sorry, got distracted."

"By a streetlamp?"

Sherlock flashes him an annoyed scowl but doesn't reply, just knocks back the last of the orange juice and rather rudely shoves the glass toward the older man's chest. John takes it and regards Sherlock as he allows himself to flop sideways back into his nest of blankets and tugs an afghan over his head.

"Shouldn't you be leaving for work?" he grumbles irritably. John rolls his eyes, shrugs to himself and stands up from where he'd taken a seat on the coffee table with a stretch to get the lingering kinks out of his back from the night spent sleeping upright on the couch.

"Should be back around six hopefully, you'll be alright on your own?"

"What the hell is the point in asking that?" Sherlock snaps, voice slightly muffled by wool. "No matter which way I answer you'll have to go to work regardless, rendering the outcome immutable and the question itself utterly fucking meaningless."

Uh oh, back to unnecessary swearing - evidently the rare moment of cooperativeness is over. John raises his eyebrows in a vaguely exasperated expression and moves off toward the kitchen to put the empty juice glass in the sink.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," he calls over his shoulder. Sherlock grumbles something rude in response but John chooses to ignore him in favour of retrieving his coat off the hook by the door.

"Well… get some sleep, I guess," he offers after a moment, hand on the doorknob in preparation to leave as he regards the motionless lump of afghan-and-teenager on his sofa.

"Try not to contract hepatitis," Sherlock's voice replies in a sardonic deadpan. John quirks a smile, correctly interpreting the sarcastic quip as Sherlock-speak for _'have a good day at work'._

John chuckles, shakes his head.

"I'll do my best."


	9. Nine

The worst part of being insane, Sherlock muses, is knowing it.

He lies sprawled out on the hard carpeting of John's sitting room, staring at his own hand as it rhythmically clenches and unclenches. It looks for all the world like a compulsive tic, but it's not, because he's utterly certain he could stop if he wanted to. It's still _his hand, _after all, and he's in control of it… but as he watches it clench into a fist again he finds himself wondering how true that is.

An experiment, then. Can he stop?

He unclenches his fist and splays his fingers out, raising the limb up to hold his hand above his face as if he's reaching for the ceiling. Two seconds… five seconds… _ten_. There, that proves it, see? He's fine. He hasn't gone mad, hasn't lost his mind, he's perfectly nor – his hand clenches into a fist again.

He scowls and loosens his grip once more, only to have the other hand start up too. _Fuck._

But, well… that really doesn't prove anything, does it? So he's been compulsively clenching his hands and occasionally springing up to pace around the flat muttering to himself like a lunatic for the past three and a half hours, so what? It's not like he didn't _choose _to do those things. He's been fully aware of his actions the entire time. He's _not _insane. It's just that he can't seem to sit still without feeling like a thousand tiny ants are trying to burrow their way out of his skull. That's not madness, that's boredom. He's bored.

So, _so _bored.

Smoking a cigarette sounds like the most heavenly thing in the world right now, but he only has two left and there's no money to buy more. John keeps a supply of emergency cash in the mason jar in the top right corner of the cabinet furthest from the stove. Sherlock found it during his third round of _'open every single drawer and cupboard in the entire flat just to see if there's anything interesting in them and no no no there isn't oh god there's nothing to do I'm going to screa__m if I don't find something to do'. _Even counted it all out, because it was mostly small bills and coins and that was something to hold his attention for the half hour it took to arrange them all into neat stacks based on denomination and relative lustre of the metallic surface coatings. It's a hundred and twenty-six pounds, seventy-two pence. Enough to buy a _lot_ of cigarettes.

Sherlock had stared at his meticulously-organised collection of money for around ten minutes before finally dumping it all back into the mason jar and returning it to the exact spot he'd found it.

Stealing from John is not an option. So what does that leave for alternatives?

He could go out and try to earn some money playing his violin. John lives relatively close to a busy pedestrian thoroughfare, so it wouldn't be too arduous a journey to find a good busking spot. But the thought of all those _people _and the sounds, colours, movement and not to mention the bloody damned _cold _makes him sick to his stomach with dread. He's never liked crowds. Nicotine generally renders proximity to so many unknown humans _just_ this side of bearable, but only if he smokes enough to practically make his head swim.

Of course certain _other_ substances _(which is he is very definitely not thinking about at all right now)_ would make the exercise a trivial affair. Could even be _amusing_ if he used enough. Can't though. Because he, er… promised John he wouldn't?

Oh fuck that, no he didn't. Now he's just making up sentimental gestures that never happened. The _real_ reason he can't is because he doesn't have any, it's simple as that. And dwelling on things he doesn't have when he _desperately would like some_ is not going to do him any good at all, so he should really stop.

Anyway, busking. Right. No, trying to go out into the midday crowds without access to either of his chemical support systems would be nothing short of torture. He'd give himself an anxiety attack. Can't risk it.

So stealing is out, busking is out… cigarettes are very nearly out. Based on past experience he figures he probably has around half a day before he completely cracks into a neurotic wreck of teenage stupidity and psychosis. John's image of him as some sort of dashing eccentric genius will be quite rudely shattered.

For some reason that's more than a bit depressing to think about.

Sherlock lies on the floor and wishes he could find some solution, some way of averting the inevitable, but for all that he tries his mind simply comes up blank. It's just fate, he supposes, because he really can't see any other way this could possibly end.

And end it must. He's been under no illusion that John actually cares what happens to him one way or the other. It's all some sort of… ugh, _martyr complex_, or something. Either that or he's filling a minor void of companionship in John's existence, like a puppy or a stray cat. People don't keep puppies around when they start chewing up the furniture, now do they? No, they take them and have them put down. Or they give them to someone else. No one else is going to want Sherlock. Does that mean he should be euthanised…? Good _god_ he's becoming morbid.

Speaking of, though, how do they even euthanise dogs these days? Is it by injection or gas? It probably depends on the size of the animal. What about rabbits? His little sister keeps a pet rabbit, always seemed so pointless. Can't train a rabbit to do anything; all they're good for is chewing grass. Rats, on the other hand... you can definitely train rats. He'd wanted to get one when he was younger but Mummy said they were filthy vermin, even the ones from the shop which was ridiculous because rodents generally pick up diseases from fleas and no self-respecting pet shop is going to let a flea infestation take hold. Although as he recalls there _is _at least one species that – hang on, what the hell is he even thinking about?

Fleas. How on earth did he go from maudlin self-pity to thinking about _fleas?_

Sherlock blinks up at the ceiling, then closes his eyes and presses the heels of his palms into them in an effort to focus. On _what_, he has no idea… anything at all, honestly. But _anything _is just another word for _nothing_ and he hasn't got a _single bloody thing_ to do. So the thoughts just keep chasing round and round in his head until he can't even think for all the damned thinking.

He lets his hands drop from his face and sighs, props himself up on his elbows to regard the room he's sprawled in the middle of. John's flat is a bit messy, really. Blankets strewn about (though that's mostly Sherlock's doing), tea mugs and medical journals and an awful lot of dust. The junior doctor obviously doesn't have much time for housework. But Sherlock does. Sherlock's got all the time in the _world._

Now if only he actually knew the first thing about cleaning.

For the next few hours he enjoys a string of minor successes, which goes a long way toward calming the buzzing cloud of agitation he once called a brain. Housework turns out to be something he's rather good at if he puts his mind to it. Though to be fair that's mostly because he's so bored that every single miniscule bit of dust or grime catches his attention immediately, which leads to a frenzy of deranged, pseudo-obsessive polishing until all possible imperfections are gone. It's more or less just enthusiasm that seems to be getting things done, not any level of technical skill - the actual business of _cleaning things_ remains something of a mystery.

But hell, what does that matter? He's always been good at figuring things out. So he doesn't let his lack of knowledge bother him, just soldiers on and tries to deduce the best way of going about things as he comes round to them. Engineering new methods of accomplishing common tasks is far more entertaining than following some boring old standard procedure anyway.

Working with what he can find around the flat he swiftly concocts a diluted, lemony sort of soap-like solution from supplies he finds stored under John's sink, hunts down a washrag and goes about removing the dust from every object in the vicinity. Soon enough all the smooth surfaces in John's flat are shining. After that's done he gets stuck for awhile trying to make sure the coffee table is exactly horizontal to the television stand, but that's fine because that's a good twenty minutes he didn't even notice going past. Then it's on to picking up the stray papers and journals and whatnot from their places scattered about the sitting room and filing them away on the bookshelf or wherever else he can find to put them.

And that's where he runs into a problem.

Because when the only thing he has to focus on is something dull and nebulously-defined like 'cleaning' he becomes very susceptible to being sidetracked by anything that looks like it might be even remotely more interesting than whatever he's supposed to be doing. And as he arranges a collection of old newspapers into a needlessly-perfectly-aligned stack next to the coffee table he spots something that completely derails him from housework.

It's on the topmost page of last week's paper, and he only catches a flash of the headline before he drops everything else to flip through to the article. Serial suicides? How is that even…? No, that can't be right in the slightest. Coincidences like that don't just _happen._ It's a killing spree, it's got to be. A murderer on the loose. But a _clever_ one, damned clever. What's the method? Can't figure it out, need more information.

Quickly he dismantles the paper-tower he'd been building and tears through all of the old back-issues in search of related articles. _Ugh_, completely useless! There isn't _nearly _enough data to make any kind of informed guess. Bloody press all reporting facts like a bunch of uneducated children, and the stupid police not even bothering to – oh! Yes! _The police!_

Any thought of finishing tidying up the flat is thoroughly driven from his mind as he rushes over to John's bedroom and snatches up a laptop he'd spotted lying beside the bed ages ago. Password protected of course, but John is nothing if not utterly predictable and so Sherlock's got it cracked in under a minute. _(Mother's maiden name and year of birth, really? God__,__ ordinary people are ridiculous.)_ He returns to the sitting room and sits cross-legged on the sofa, spreading the news articles he's accumulated out atop the coffee table in front of him while he waits for the computer's operating system to boot up.

On the floor near the arm of the couch is a pen and notepad John sometimes uses to jot down notes while he's reading medical journals. Sherlock appropriates the items, flips to an empty page and scribbles out a few haphazard half-formed theories. Beside him the laptop chimes a welcoming noise as it finishes loading, and he drops the notepad to set the computer in his lap instead.

Sherlock grins to himself as he opens the internet browser.

This is going to be _fun._


	10. Ten

John's first day back at work is, predictably, a hectic one.

And of course his mental state isn't helped in the slightest for the constant, nagging worry circling away at the back of his mind. Sherlock's alone. Sherlock's still very much in the midst of an unpleasant round of detox (though hopefully the majority of the boy's physical symptoms will have subsided by now – he'd seemed more or less alright this morning after all). John's been trying desperately to convince himself that his friend is strong enough to resist temptation.

It isn't going well.

Because, unfortunately, convincing himself of that particular belief _also_ necessitates forgetting all about said friend being a sixteen year old with a chronic lack of impulse control... and somehow John hasn't quite mastered the mental acrobatics to manage that yet.

It's his mid-afternoon break and he's leaning against the nurses' station with a coffee and a biscuit, staring at his mobile in his hand and wondering if it would be worthwhile to try calling Sherlock. When he'd left for work the boy had looked to be halfway to falling back asleep already, bundled up under his ever-growing nest of afghans and comforters and whatever other blanket-like objects he's found around the flat. (John's fairly sure the collection is less for warmth and more of a security thing, considering how the majority of them always seem to end up on the floor before night's end. Pointing that out to Sherlock would probably not be a good idea though, so he's carefully kept his theories to himself.) He doesn't want to risk waking his irascible houseguest if the teenager still hasn't gotten up... but then again he also really, really wants to make sure his guest is still in his flat.

He's just gotten to the point of pulling out his phone (maybe he'll just send a text?) when he's startled by the device buzzing in his hand.

_**Bored. - SH**_

John grins and stifles a relieved laugh as a nurse walks past. He's still not entirely sure how Sherlock even got his phone number (John doesn't recall ever having mentioned even _owning_ a mobile, but then he supposes he shouldn't expect anything less of Sherlock) but the boy's certainly made no qualms about texting him at all hours of the day or night, usually with some variation on the same message he's just received. The little dose of normalcy goes a long way toward easing John's fears.

_**You can use my laptop if you want**_, John texts back, smiling.

_**Already am. - SH**_

John's face quirks in a bemused, vaguely disconcerted expression.

_**I left it password protected**_, he points out.

_**In a manner of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox. - SH**_

John shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee.

_**I'm going to come home to a completely dismantled computer, aren't I?**_

_**Ye of little faith. - SH**_

Chuckling, John finishes the last of his drink and straightens up from the desk he'd been leaning against. Only two more hours of work to go. And for the first time since leaving the flat this morning, he's beginning to think Sherlock might be alright.

**:::**

John does not, in fact, come home to a dismantled computer.

No, what he finds when he opens the door to his flat that afternoon is a scene far stranger.

Sherlock is sprawled on the couch, head hanging off one of the armrests with his feet propped up on the back, with a newspaper held open in front of his face. John's coffee table is strewn with what looks to be a weeks'-worth of news clippings alongside a slew of computer printouts, hand-written notes scrawled over everything in pen. And… for some reason the entire flat smells of lemon.

John blinks, looks around. The television and cabinet are spotless, as are the countertops in the kitchen, the floor, the windows… every single flat surface looks to have been thoroughly and obsessively cleaned. His furniture's been straightened as well, everything forming perfect right angles and horizontal lines. All his medical journals are arranged in perfectly straight rows on the bookshelf, the afghans and miscellaneous bedding Sherlock's been collecting sit folded neatly on the couch cushions.

It's… otherworldly.

"Did you… tidy up my flat?" John utters in complete disbelief. Of all the things he'd expected Sherlock to do when left to his own devices, cleaning had _not _been one of them.

Sherlock tilts his head back to regard John upside-down from his reclined position on the sofa.

"I was bored," he offers by way of explanation. John has no response for that besides utter bafflement. After a tense second of them staring at each other Sherlock suddenly shifts to sit up properly, looks around as his face pulls into a slightly worried frown. "Sorry, I didn't… if something's in the wrong spot, maybe? Or is it the lemon smell? Sorry about that, I think I messed up the dilution ratio of the soap. Didn't really notice until later, though I did have the window open for awhile to try and air it out but it got rather cold and I thought maybe the heating bill would get too steep so I tried to turn the thermostat off but I couldn't find the controls and then the-"

"Sherlock," John cuts off, eyes widening at the teenager's rapidly-accelerating speech. Sherlock cuts off and blinks over at him, looking a bit lost and uncertain. John schools his face into a smile. "It's fine, it looks great. That was very nice of you to do."

Sherlock flashes John one of his rare, completely genuine grins. Then abruptly his face falls into a frown again.

"I got distracted before I could finish though… sorry."

John shakes his head. "That's alright," he assures. Then, to change the subject before Sherlock can argue (or apologise again, which always makes John uncomfortable) he gestures to the mess of papers littering his coffee table. "What's all this, then?"

Sherlock's frown disappears as his eyes seem to light up.

"Oh it's brilliant, John, serial suicides!" he exclaims, sounding for all the world like a kid at Christmas. "Someone's been killing random civilians but making it look self-inflicted somehow, utterly genius. I'm trying to figure out how he's done it. Poison, obviously, but how does he get them to take it?"

John blinks and tries not to let himself look too disturbed. Sherlock tends to get overenthusiastic about extremely off-putting subject matter, a fact John's learnt well after one too many pressing inquiries concerning the sort of traumatic injuries he's seen at work.

"Isn't that the job of the police to figure out?" he hedges.

Sherlock makes a disgusted noise and flips a hand dismissively. "The police! Useless, they couldn't catch a murderer if he were staring them straight in the face."

"Think there's a few blokes in prison right now who'd dispute that," John points out rather bemusedly. He finally gets around to hanging his coat up and moves off toward the kitchen to hunt down some tea and biscuits, finding himself staring around with a sort of blank awe at the spotless countertops as he does so.

"And how many of their fellows are in fact innocent men, wrongly convicted?" Sherlock replies with a derisive scoff. "You could catch every murderer in the country if you imprisoned the entire population, John. A stellar arrest record is no indication of competency."

Out of the teenager's sight, John quirks an exasperated smile and rolls his eyes. Sherlock's frequent moments of apparent self-doubt and hesitation (usually about social situations) always seem to come packaged with a completely contradictory superiority complex regarding anything intellectual. It's confusing at best, but then John figures that's probably just how Sherlock is – can't do anything by halves, always has to be as complicated as possible.

"So what's your theory then?" he asks, deciding it'd probably be best to just humour his guest's macabre interest for now. After all a talking, enthusiastic Sherlock (even if the enthusiasm's been sparked by a series of tragic deaths) is far better than the trembling, agonised boy of the last few days. And anyway Sherlock _did_ clean his flat. John still can't quite believe that. Everything's just so… _neat._

Though it's not, he notes as he hunts around for the tea supplies, particularly _organised._ At least not in any manner he can make heads or tails of – the tea is in the drawer with the silverware and the sugar is over by the sink for some reason. But they were definitely put there on purpose, because in both instances the items are meticulously aligned with whatever corners they happen to be nearby. John finds himself wondering vaguely if Sherlock might have some sort of OCD. Does cocaine even treat that? It seems like hard stimulants would be just about the _last_ thing you'd want to give someone with rampant compulsions, but then again-

"I can _feel _you thinking," Sherlock's voice quips not-quite-irritably from the other room. John rolls his eyes again and turns toward the open walkway between the sitting room and kitchen nook to flash Sherlock a _'stop being a brat' _expression. The boy just fixes him with an unimpressed stare in response – a look which unfortunately loses rather a lot of impact when delivered with one's head hanging upside-down off the edge of the couch cushions.

"Do you have some sort of moral objection to using furniture properly?" John questions after a brief pause to work out how exactly Sherlock's even managing to avoid sliding off the sofa in that position. His friend huffs imperiously and juts his jaw – an action which, again, is rendered fairly ridiculous by the whole being-upside-down thing.

"There's no such thing as '_proper_'. That's just a word people use when they don't have an adequate explanation for why you shouldn't do something," Sherlock informs him matter-of-factly. John raises his eyebrows in a dubious look, but the boy just carries on speaking without giving him a chance to respond. "Anyway so he's got to be coercing them to take the poison somehow, but how? There's no signs of a scuffle, no external injuries… not to mention that all of the victims have been found in locations they had no business being anywhere near. The killer must have transported them there by some means, gave them the pill and then… what? How do you convince someone to swallow poison?"

"Maybe he just... talks to them?" John suggests with a shrug. He starts to move back into the kitchen, but stops short as something occurs to him. "Hang on, how do you even know all that?"

"Know all what?" Sherlock asks offhandedly. John turns around to see that the teenager's eyes have slipped closed, hands up in front of his face in some sort of vaguely prayer-like posture.

"How do you know where the victims were found, and that there were no injuries, and that the poison was in pill form? None of that was in the papers." Even as he asks John begins to wonder if he really wants to know. With his luck Sherlock will have used his laptop to…

"Oh. I hacked into New Scotland Yard's internal network and printed off the case files," Sherlock explains in a tone of bland disinterest, removing one of his hands from the strange praying gesture to indicate the papers littering John's coffee table. "Well, I say _hacked_… really I just called their IT department and pretended like I'd forgotten my employee password. Granted me access in less than ten minutes. Idiots, the lot of them."

John sputters. "Y-you used _my laptop_ to hack the bloody _police –"_

"Relax, I used a proxy," Sherlock quips, managing to sound both infuriatingly smug and utterly bored at the same time. "That laptop thinks it's in Russia at the moment, and the signal's being routed through six different countries and a satellite array. You're fine."

"Sherlock! You can't just -" John starts, but Sherlock cuts him off with a noise of excitement.

"Pink!" he suddenly exclaims for no apparent reason whatsoever. John blinks.

"Er... what?" he mutters somewhat less than eloquently.

"_Pink_, John!" Sherlock cries again in a slightly exasperated tone, like he thinks his meaning should be obvious. (It's not in the slightest.) In a flash he's off the sofa and bounding across the flat to retrieve his wrinkled pullover from where he'd apparently hung it on a doorknob.

"Hang on, wait!" John calls as he drops the teabag he'd been holding to hurry into the other room. Sherlock's busy tying his shoes as quickly as possible. "Where do you think you're going?"

Sherlock glances up at him with a look that clearly says _'seriously?'_ - most likely because John's got his hands on his hips like a disapproving mother hen. John glances down at his own posture with a slightly embarrassed cough and quickly shifts his arms to cross in front of his chest instead.

"You can't go out now, it's half past six," he asserts in what he likes to think of as his 'doctor voice'. Sherlock just rolls his eyes.

"Yes, _mum_, I'm aware of the time," he quips blandly. Shoes tied he springs up from where he'd sat down on the floor and puts a hand on the doorknob. "I'll only be gone an hour or so, don't wait up!" he calls, and with that the boy darts out of the flat.

John swears to himself, scrubs his hands through his hair agitatedly for a few indecisive seconds. For god's sake he's _just _got home, he's got work to do - studying and finding something for dinner and... and good lord Sherlock could be running headlong into danger.

Without a second thought John grabs his coat and runs after his friend.


	11. Eleven

**A/N:** _The only city I've ever lived in that had a subway system was Tokyo, so pre-emptive apologies if anything below seems strangely Japanese._

* * *

God, how had he not realised sooner!?

_Pink_, of course... the case file on the most recent victim had included photographs of the murdered woman, clearly showing her outfit. Pink business suit, pink shoes, pink _nails _for god's sake - and yet no sign of a case! And they'd identified her as a travelling media executive on a day trip from Cardiff, so there has to be a suitcase _somewhere_. How the police failed to pick up on such an obvious omission he has no idea, but it's not going to matter for long because he knows _exactly_ where the item's got to be.

Well... mostly exactly. Sort of. _Nearby_, anyway, and he's really got to hurry up because the murder was last night and the city waste management could go by at _any moment_ and -

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock stops short and spins around, spotting the stout frame of John jogging up behind him.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks in confusion. Even as he speaks he starts walking quickly backwards, because Brixton is _two whole tube stations_ away and there's no time to waste.

"Not letting you run off after murderers and god-knows-what-else on your own, that's what I'm bloody doing!" John snaps as he catches up. Sherlock blinks at him.

"I'm not running after a murderer," he points out. Because he's _not_, technically... well not yet anyway. Suitcase first, then he can decide what to do after that based on available data.

"Sherlock, if you think you've figured something out you should _really _just call the police." John's having a bit of trouble keeping up with Sherlock's longer strides, but time is of the essence so the teenager doesn't bother slowing down. Instead he quirks a vaguely exasperated expression in John's direction.

"And tell them I've been reading over their confidential case files for the better part of an afternoon?"

John blinks once, then screws up his face in a strange sort of _'I can't believe I put up with this'_ look and shakes his head with a long-suffering sigh. "God... right," he groans. After a moment he seems to give up and just accepts the inevitable (that Sherlock is perfectly correct, as usual). "So what exactly are you expecting to do then?" the older man asks with a huff. "Just go gallivanting off to apprehend a serial killer all on your own?"

Sherlock scoffs. "Hardly. First I'll see if my theory is correct."

"And then...?" John hedges. Sherlock shrugs.

"And then we'll see what happens, won't we?"

_"Sherlock."_

There isn't any time to listen to the rest of John's complaining, because they've finally come upon the nearest tube station and Sherlock's occupied with the business of finding a likely-looking point to slip past the ticket barriers. Until, of course, John grabs his arm and holds up a blue card he's just fished out of his billfold, looking distinctly unimpressed.

"Oyster card?" the older man asks, glancing down at the jeans pocket where Sherlock generally keeps his scant collection of cards and money.

"Er... don't have one," Sherlock admits as he tries unsuccessfully to tug his arm out of John's grip. He'd sold his pre-charged card months ago for cocaine money. "Also out of cash, so if you'd kindly let go...?"

John just rolls his eyes in response and drags Sherlock off toward the ticket machines. "Where are we going?"

"Brixton," Sherlock answers automatically. Then his brain catches up with him and he attempts to tug his arm away again, because the ticket barriers are_ that way_ and he _really_ doesn't have time for this. "John honestly there's no point going for a ticket, I was just going to-"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before John is punching in the relevant information on the machine. Sherlock blinks as the older man feeds in a five pound note, collects his change and hands the freshly-dispensed ticket to Sherlock.

"You'll have to pay me back later," John says blandly, and without waiting for a rebuttal steers his younger friend toward the ticket barrier.

**:::**

Tube rides, Sherlock quickly decides, are _bloody terrible._

It doesn't help that it's just barely past seven in the evening, meaning all sorts of people are still on their way home. And on top of that he and John have somehow managed to get on a car with no available seats, forcing them to stand for the entirety of the half hour journey. Sherlock's quite literally in hell - it's crowded and there's people _everywhere_ and he absolutely _hates it._

John, of course, is completely at ease... or at least as at ease as he can manage to be while Sherlock's pressed up against his side like a frightened cat.

"We could have just taken a cab, you know," John points out quietly after around five minutes of Sherlock unconsciously trying to occupy exactly the same spot as his older companion.

"Too expensive," Sherlock snaps in a half-strangled hiss as he forces himself to take a (very small) step away from John. Ugh for god's sake he's _sixteen_, he can stand on his own like a _bloody adult_. But then seconds later the disgusting woman with the poorly-concealed cold sores standing to his right shifts her stance, coming perilously close to accidental contact with Sherlock's arm, and he's scooted back against John again. She glances his direction with a confused lift of one of her over-manicured eyebrows and Sherlock barely resists the urge to bare his teeth like a cornered dog. Damned _people _with their disgusting habits and germs and _smells! _Why can't they all just keep to their own bloody selves!?

"I wouldn't have minded paying fare," John replies in the polite mumble apparently reserved for discussions on mass transit, his calm voice cutting into Sherlock's squirming internal war for self-control. "You're obviously not comfortable with tube rides."

"I am _perfectly fine_," Sherlock growls back. Stepping away from John again he crosses his arms over his chest, glares venomously around at everyone who looks like they might come even remotely close to touching him. Excepting his friend, of course - John is trusted, familiar, safe. Hence why Sherlock is acting an utter fool trying to make sure the med student is the only person he actually has to come into contact with.

John rolls his eyes, and Sherlock tries to straighten his posture somewhat from where he's hunched over on himself, making a token attempt to appear more _normal. _Because despite what John most likely assumes about his mental state Sherlock_ is_ actually rather acutely aware of how stupid he looks right now. Social norms might not come as _instinctively_ to him as they seem to for other people, but that doesn't mean he's clueless as to what's expected. Usually he's even quite decent at putting on a show - imitating others with enough finesse to appear at least superficially neurotypical. Unfortunately that strategy's looking like it won't be an option right now. No, there's _far_ too many things competing for his attention at the moment - people and colours and sounds and smells - and trying to make sure his brain doesn't crack in an overstimulated panic response is currently taking precedence over pretending to be sane.

And of course it doesn't help in the _slightest_ that he's apparently still feeling the effects of detox - still the slight haze of mental exhaustion as sensations are amplified, shocks of phantom electricity few and far between but still very much present. He'd forgotten about it all for awhile there, running on the adrenaline of finally finding something_ interesting_ to do. Everything had been pushed to the wayside in favour of thinking over this newest puzzle he'd set for himself. But now the lull in action is bringing it all to the forefront again, and it's all he can do not to grind his teeth and snarl in agitation.

Desperate frustration looms as well, because as ever there lurks the constant knowledge that a single hit of cocaine would make the whole damned world perfect again. Would make this_ bearable_. Because after all how many tube rides has he taken while high? Dozens, surely, and had any of them ever been like_ this_?

No. Not a _single damned one_. He's been _perfectly fine_ every other time he's ever had to take the tube, and it's only now that he starts panicking. Only when he's sober. And this is supposed to be _better_ somehow? Clear-headed, watching the world press in too close and too loud and moving shifting _changing_ all the bloody damned time? It's absolute _torture_. Who the_ fuck_ would ever choose this over the blissful serenity of drugs?

These thoughts chase angry, buzzing circles of frustrated distress round the inside of his skull for nearly the entire duration of the train ride. Finally they hit the stop at Brixton and Sherlock's darting out of the train car the first second he possibly can, John hot on his heels. Within minutes they're back on the open streets, where without really thinking about it Sherlock taps out one of his last two cigarettes, clamps it between his lips and lights the end all in one smooth, practised motion. Only one fag left now, but after an experience like _that_ he figures he's entitled to some chemical assistance with calming down again.

John, predictably, fixes him with a disapproving frown, but Sherlock ignores him in favour of glancing over street signs as they pass. A mental map of the areas he needs to check quickly coalesces in his head as the blessed quiet of nicotine permeates his overhyped brain.

"Feeling better?" John asks after a moment's walking, his voice coming out just this side of sardonic. Sherlock glances back over his shoulder. Behind him the older man's face is still stuck in that disapproving, slightly irritated expression, so Sherlock narrows his eyes and matches the look with an annoyed scowl.

"I didn't _ask_ you to follow me, you know," he growls around his cigarette. John just sighs.

"Well I did anyway," he replies in an exasperated huff. "So would you mind telling me what we're doing, exactly?"

In leiu of answering Sherlock spots a likely-looking sidestreet to their left and quickly darts down it in search of a rubbish tip. The crime scene is still several streets away, but then Sherlock's not exactly _looking_ for the crime scene, now is he? No, what he needs is much more likely to be near at hand. After all if his theory is correct, then the man would most likely have been driving back to a populated area, meaning...

"What are you doing in a bloody skip?" John cries in exasperation as he comes around the corner of the alley Sherlock's just bolted down. Sherlock lifts his head from where he's got his upper torso buried in a pile of flattened cardboard boxes.

"Looking!" he responds snappishly, going back to his search. He hears John come up behind him.

"For...?"

"Case!" Sherlock explains in an annoyed bark. _Damn it, _wrong skip. He flings himself backwards to land on his feet on the pavement, goes dashing off in another direction. He's got a good two dozen more of these to check, no sense wasting time.

"Sherlock!" he hears John call after him. Probably having difficultly keeping up. Well it's hardly _Sherlock's_ fault the man's got shorter legs than him.

"Just keep a lookout for waste management or something!" he snaps over his shoulder, and without waiting for a response sprints around the corner of the next alley. A fire escape ladder hangs halfway-lowered in front of him and he jumps mid-step to grab hold of it. Less than a minute later he's on the rooftops - much better chance of spotting what he's after from up here, and with the added bonus of faster travel to boot.

John's down below, glaring up at Sherlock from the pavement.

"Sherlock! Get down!" he orders in his usual _'I'm older than you and therefore arbitrarily more qualified to make decisions' _voice. Sherlock, of course, takes no notice.

"Look around for a pink suitcase, text me if you find anything!" he calls down to John. "I'll meet you back at the station in a few hours!"

John, judging by his expression, is not enthused by that plan of action. But he's also not nearly tall enough to catch hold of the fold-up ladder Sherlock used to get up here, so there's not much danger of the older man chasing after him. With a smirk and a sarcastic flip of a salute Sherlock turns on his heel and walks off along the rooftops of London.

He's got _evidence_ to find.


	12. Twelve

A _pink suitcase_, what the hell is that supposed to mean!?

John shakes his head, breathes out an exasperated sigh as he shoves his hands in his coat pockets and turns to walk back down the pavement in the direction they'd come. Sherlock's gone bounding off over the bloody _rooftops_, spouting something incomprehensible about a case, and John's been rather rudely left to fend for himself.

He's got absolutely no bloody idea what Sherlock meant by looking for a pink suitcase, and in the absence of any decipherable plan of action John decides he'd best just go and wait back at the station. At the very least he'll be less likely to find himself on the wrong end of a mugging if he hangs around a more populated area.

As he makes his way past a shop he glances in to see a phone on the wall start ringing. A clerk goes to answer it, only to have it stop a split-second before he picks it up.

_Hooligans,_ John thinks bemusedly, recalling his school days when prank-calling was a fun pastime. He keeps walking.

It's around the third time a payphone begins ringing _just_ as he walks past that John begins to think something strange might be going on.

He stops, stares at the phone booth he's standing beside. The device keeps ringing, not cutting off as the others had... cutting off _the second he'd passed_, he now realises. He blinks and twists his body to look down the street behind him. Nothing out of the ordinary. He turns back to the phone booth.

_Oh sod it,_ he thinks, and walks into the booth.

"Hello...?"

**:::**

Several mysteriously-controlled CCTV cameras, a black towncar and one very disinterested young woman later John finds himself being deposited in the midst of an empty warehouse halfway across town. As he steps out of the vehicle he spots a lone man in a suit leaning casually on an umbrella before him, his benign smile discomfortingly reminiscent of a smug supervillain. John finds himself wondering when exactly he'd stumbled into a James Bond film.

Still, best not look ruffled. He straightens his shoulders and strides confidently toward the ominous gentleman.

"You know... I've got a phone," he points out as he walks. "I mean it was very clever, all that... but, uh, you could have just phoned me. On my phone."

The man flashes him a tight, false smile.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discreet."

Instantly alarm bells go off in John's head. This person knows _Sherlock_? How? And what on earth would a besuited business man with shady sinister government powers want with a cocky, drug-addled sixteen year- oh.

_Oh..._ right.

John's expression drops into an unimpressed stare.

"Mycroft," he intones flatly. The man in front of him snaps his mouth shut from where he'd been just about to speak. They stare each other down for an awkward moment.

"You... know who I am?" the man asks after a pause, looking like he's been cut off before he could deliver what John's sure would have been a very impressive speech.

John resists the urge to sigh in exasperation and instead crosses his arms over his chest. As much as he enjoys Sherlock's company he is _really_ starting to find himself growing more than a little fed up with all this... this what? _Holmes family insanity?_ Is that even a thing? He's fairly sure it is.

"It'd be hard not to, Sherlock complains about you about as often as he breathes," John explains, managing to avoid rolling his eyes at the sheer absurdity of the whole situation. Good god, how _old_ is Mycroft anyway? Around John's age, isn't he? A few months younger at the most. And yet he's evidently just as fond of ridiculous theatrics as his little brother. There must be some sort of gene for melodrama.

John bites out a tired sigh. "Is there a reason you felt the need to pluck me up off the street? I was sort of in the middle of something."

Mycroft seems to take a brief second to collect himself, then clears his throat delicately. He straightens his posture from where he'd been leaning on his umbrella and makes a token attempt at looming menacingly over John's shorter form. John just stares impassively up at the other man.

"You don't seem very afraid," Mycroft points out darkly. It's a voice of confident power - the tone of someone who's not to be trifled with for reasons they shouldn't have to bother explaining. Unfortunately for Mycroft it's the exact same vocal trick Sherlock likes to use whenever he's trying to get his way about something ridiculous, meaning John's become quite thoroughly immune to the effect.

"You don't seem very frightening," he retorts, unimpressed. Because after all it's a tad difficult to be intimidated by a man about whom you've heard more than one story concerning dead frogs and bedsheets.

Mycroft apparently reads something of John's thoughts in his face. He raises one eyebrow in a curious expression. "What exactly has Sherlock told you about me?"

John matches Mycroft's painfully-false air of polite interest with a badly-faked smile.

"Oh, you know... that you've a power fetish, no regard for the privacy of others and an unhealthy fixation with brollies." John punctuates this last statement with a meaningful glance at the man's tie, which is festooned with tiny umbrellas. Mycroft keeps his expression carefully unmoved, so John continues on. "You know I honestly thought that was all just normal exaggerated teenage sibling rivalry stuff - Sherlock playing up stories to make you seem worse than you are." He shrugs. "Joke's on me I s'pose."

Mycroft's face darkens imperceptibly at the glib insult, but John keeps his stance steady. This man's some sort of absurdly-powerful government official, yes, but John's best friends with his little brother. And as manic as Sherlock can get John knows full well the teenager would never let anyone get away with having his best _(only?)_ friend assassinated. The thought of Mycroft finding himself the subject of a horrific, never-ending prank war should the worst happen to John is strangely comforting.

"What is your connection with my brother?" Mycroft suddenly asks, the affable politicians' demeanour abruptly dropping away as his tone goes frigid. John refuses to be cowed - just raises his chin a fraction and straightens his back.

"He's my friend," he states simply.

Mycroft's brows raise in a look of condescending disbelief. "I hope you'll forgive me if I don't find that particularly believable." John opens his mouth to retort, but the man cuts over him in an icy tone. "What do you want with the boy? Money? You should be aware that our family has a strict policy against negotiating with blackmailers."

John sets his jaw and glares. "He's my _friend_," he reiterates. "I don't need money. I just enjoy his company and I care about his wellbeing. Evidently that's a lot more than can be said of _some _people."

Mycroft fixes John with a cold stare. "You think I'm not concerned with my brother's welfare?"

Before John can reply a trilling sound breaks the tense silence between them, his mobile vibrating in his pocket with a text alert. Automatically John reaches into his coat for the phone and opens the message he's just received.

"I hope I'm not _distracting_ you," Mycroft drawls in a low, vaguely dangerous tone. John remains wholly unaffected; apparently a month hanging about with Sherlock's given him remarkably thick skin concerning all sorts of casual madness, unspoken threats included.

"Not... distracting me at all," John replies in a very _not-distracted_ mumble as he fiddles with his mobile. The text, predictably, is from Sherlock.

_**Found the case. Where are you? -SH**_

John glances up at Mycroft, flashes one of the man's disgustingly-polite smiles back at him and then goes back to his phone to type a reply.

_**I've been kidnapped by your brother and taken to an abandoned warehouse against my will.**_

That is, John muses, absolutely the most absurd text he has ever composed. He hits send regardless, and before he can even return the phone to his pocket the device chimes with a reply.

_**Ugh. Tell him to go fuck himself. -SH**_

John blinks down at his phone, clears his throat slightly, then glances back up to his captor. In front of him Mycroft is watching the text exchange with an air of polite disinterest, his earlier frustration once again masked by an expertly-applied façade of detachment.

"Er... Sherlock says hello," John offers after a rather awkward pause.

"I _sincerely _doubt that," Mycroft responds blandly. John just shrugs. They stare each other down for a few seconds longer, before Mycroft sighs very slightly and leans forward to rest his weight on his brolly once more. He regards John carefully before speaking; "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

John screws up his face in vague annoyance. "You know, I could be wrong... but I think that's none of your business."

"The boy is my _little brother_, Mr Watson, it is _entirely_ my business," Mycroft answers with a supremely unimpressed glower. John matches the expression with a scowl of his own.

"Sort of negates any business-having when you let your teenage sibling run off to live on the streets, don't you think?" he retorts hotly. That old spark of indignant anger is rising up to cloud his vision again; he sets his jaw in a furious glare. "Look, as far as I'm concerned it's no one's business who Sherlock _associates with_ but his own, and at the moment he's chosen to associate with me. So if you've got a problem with that you can just..." John hesitates, crosses his arms again. Does he really want to...? Oh sod it, he's beyond the point of no return now. Might as well take Sherlock's advice for once. "You can just go_ fuck yourself!_"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow in bland disbelief, then snorts very slightly and rolls his eyes. "Ah, yes, _that_ sounds far more accurate."

"What...?" John starts, but he's cut off by another chiming sound. This time it's coming from Mycroft's pocket rather than his own. The taller man leans back and plucks an expensive-looking mobile from his lapel pocket to regard the screen with an air of long-suffering tolerance.

"It would appear that your presence is being requested back at your flat," he intones drolly. After a further pause he flicks his phone back into his coat, then simply stands and regards John for a long moment.

"Er...? So are we... done, then?" John hedges, glancing back at the towncar he'd been abducted by. For some reason he's feeling like he should wait to be dismissed, which considering everything he's said to this man over the last few minutes is frankly ridiculous. The instinct to be at least somewhat polite proves rather hard to shake, though.

John turns his head back to his kidnapper, only to catch the man staring at him with a look of genuine concern upon his pale features. Mycroft taps his umbrella a few times in what for all intents looks like an uncomfortable fidget, then clears his throat.

"Would you say he's... doing well?" the man asks somewhat hesitantly. John blinks once in confusion.

"You... what? Why?" John responds in bafflement. He'd rather fancied Mycroft might be some sort of sociopath - this sudden shift to halfway _normal_ is distinctly odd. Quickly he glances the man up and down with a suspicious eye, on the alert for any signs of deceit.

"I _worry_ about him, Mr Watson," Mycroft informs him, looking faintly offended by John's obvious scrutiny. "_Constantly._" After a pause the man sighs and glances away. "I'm sure you can imagine the difficulties involved in keeping track of a boy like Sherlock? The task becomes nigh _impossible_ when he doesn't wish to be monitored. And I assure you our sister is no better - between the two of them I'm quite certain I've lost half a decade to stress alone."

Despite his lingering sense of anger John still finds his face pulling into a look of sympathy. Having to chase after _one_ eccentric supergenius with a penchant for seeking out danger is bad enough... he can hardly fathom having _two_ of the little beasts to worry about. Lunatic kidnapper or not, he figures the least he can do is let the man know his brother's doing alright.

"Sherlock's..." John trails off as he debates mentioning the whole cocaine issue - on the one hand Sherlock's (hopefully) rid of the stuff... on the other Mycroft might not have known about it in the first place, and John _really_ doesn't want to be the person to have to break that sort of news. He decides to err on the side of caution. "Er... fine. I mean, well... bored, usually, and a bit of a brat at times, but... fine."

Mycroft's face shifts into a melancholy smile, a weary tinge to his expression that seems to age him far beyond his years.

"I'm... relieved to hear that." After a slight pause he raises a hand and signals to his assistant, who emerges from the parked towncar. Then he looks back to John. "You'll continue to look after him, won't you?"

"Yes," John answers immediately, brows furrowing in vague confusion at the unexpected shift in demeanour. "For as long as I can."

Mycroft's tired smile shifts into a look of quiet gratitude. His assistant reaches them and his expression drops into a blank façade once more as he nods authoritatively in her direction.

"Have Mr Watson returned to his flat," he orders the girl. Then, apparently deeming the conversation finished, he simply turns to walk away. John raises his eyebrows in a wordless _'alright, then' _and passively allows himself to be steered back to the car by the woman-whose-name-is-not-Anthea.

"Mr Watson?" Mycroft's voice calls suddenly. John stops and looks back over his shoulder. The other man is standing silent in the midst of the empty warehouse, his tall form silhouetted by the dimmed evening lights.

"Yeah?" John asks with his hand resting on the open door of the towncar.

Mycroft seems to hesitate for a moment, then turns to meet John's eyes with a steady stare. "Thank you."

Silence reigns for a few seconds as John casts about for an appropriate response. Finally he shakes his head.

"I'm not doing it for you," he asserts, looking back up to Mycroft.

Mycroft smiles again. "I know."

And without another word, the man turns and disappears into the shadows.

John watches him go with a baffled stare.

_An entire bloody family of lunatics,_ he thinks in vague bemusement, and climbs into the back seat of the towncar.


	13. Thirteen

Sod the tube, he's taking a cab.

And yes, granted, he's skint broke, but Sherlock figures he can bloody well cross that bridge when he comes to it. Probably just duck the fare or something, easy enough. That or Mycroft can pay. Stupid git deserves a bill or two, considering the fat whale's apparently decided to go back to meddling in Sherlock's business after a good three months of leaving him alone. _Kidnapping John_, seriously? Who the hell _does_ that?

Sherlock sighs to himself as he drags the hot pink wheeled suitcase along behind him, walking toward the street. After a few minutes he makes it to the kerb and signals a passing taxi.

"Where to, lad?" the elderly man behind the wheel asks in a friendly cockney accent.

"St. Barts," Sherlock orders off-handedly, tosses the case into the back seat of the cab and climbs in after it. He knows John's home address, of course, but it'll be easier to get away with fare-dodging if the driver doesn't get any sort of identifying information. The hospital's near enough to John's flat, anyway, so the extra distance won't matter too much.

As Sherlock settles back into the leather of the cab seat, digging his mobile out of his pocket as he does so, the cabbie gives him a strange look through the rear-view mirror.

"That's quite a colour for your case there, lad," the man comments. Sherlock doesn't even glance up, too busy with his phone.

_**Take John back to his flat you fat fucking walrus. –SH**_

He hits 'send' on the message to Mycroft and blinks up at the driver.

"Hm? Oh." He looks over at the (frankly hideous) suitcase and shrugs. "Got it half-price. Could we please get a move on? I'm in a bit of a hurry."

The cabbie smiles. "Course, mate, sorry."

Finally they're travelling. Sherlock takes the opportunity to inspect the luggage tag on the victim's case. A mobile number… he thinks back over the case notes he'd read earlier in the day, trying to remember… _oh!_ Yes! No phone listed among the possessions. Odd, very odd. Worth investigating . He quickly pulls the case onto his lap and begins to dig through it.

"Lost something?" the cabbie asks. Sherlock waves a hand in vague confirmation but doesn't bother to respond verbally. _Unusually chatty for a taxi driver_, he thinks as he searches. _Probably just having a slow night._

Underthings and cosmetics and toiletries… but _no phone!_ Very suspicious. A woman like that wouldn't be caught dead without her mobile, so where…?

Suddenly he grins to himself. Oh, clever! It's with the _killer_, of course! _That's_ what 'RACHEL' meant, some sort of password – GPS tracking? Most likely. Can't just run on assumption, though, have to confirm. Quickly he shuts the case again and squints at the numbers on the tag, typing them into his phone one-handed.

The text is simple enough to compose; vague message, enough detail to hopefully make the murderer panic but won't tip anyone off should the phone have somehow fallen into someone else's custody. He presses 'send' and tucks his mobile away.

Three seconds later… he hears a chiming noise.

Sherlock freezes. _Was that…?_ No, no, probably just coincidence. But then he glances up to the front seat, sees the cabbie pull a phone out of his pocket.

A _bright pink_ phone.

The man frowns at the screen, looks back up into the mirror to smile at Sherlock as he slows the cab to a stop against the left-hand kerb. "Sorry, lad, got to make a call. Won't be a moment!"

Sherlock nods to show he's fine with that but otherwise keeps still. _Coincidence… it's got to be a co- _

The cabbie taps a few keys, then hits send. Immediately Sherlock's ringtone starts up from his pocket. He locks eyes with the driver's reflection in the rear-view mirror.

"Best answer your phone, eh?" the man suggests, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock shakes his head and does his best to keep his expression neutral.

"It's… probably just my brother. I'll ring him back later."

In answer the cabbie presses a button to cut the call he's making. Sherlock's pocket stops ringing. The teenager very carefully doesn't react as the two of them continue to stare at each other through the mirror.

"Bit odd to see a boy your age carrying a case like that, ain't it?" the man says in a friendly tone. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't s'pose you'd mind tellin' me where you got it?"

A few seconds' silence stretch between them. Every instinct is telling Sherlock to lunge for the cab door, bolt out into the street and get himself far, _far_ away. But as his hand begins to edge toward the door handle something stops him – something far stronger than any sense of self-preservation he's ever had.

Curiosity.

Sherlock's hand stops mere inches from the handle. "How did you do it?"

The cabbie raises a single grey eyebrow. "Do what now?"

"Don't play stupid!" Sherlock suddenly snaps with a scowl. "I know it was you, I just don't know _how._ What did you do, how did you get them to take the poison?"

Suddenly the cab driver's face shifts into an amused grin, pale blue eyes twinkling in merriment. "Want to find out?"

Quiet, deadly. _Dangerous._

Sherlock hesitates, his hand going for the door again - he should _really_ get the hell out of here. A voice in his head wearing John's face is already scolding him for being so reckless... but _god_ if he runs now he might _never know_ and that's… that's… no, he'll drive himself absolutely _mad_ puzzling over it if he lets this chance get away.

"Fine. It won't work on me anyway," he tells the driver imperiously and draws his hand back to instead cross his arms over his chest. The cabbie chuckles and sets the car in gear again.

"Won't it?" he asks with a smirk. "You sure about that, lad?"

Sherlock scoffs, settles back into the seat as if he's completely at ease. (And he _is_… mostly… no, _totally_, perfectly fine, yes, not nervous at all.) "Of course I'm sure."

Ten minutes of tense silence brings them to an abandoned row of school buildings, where the taxi pulls up to the kerb and the driver gets out. Sherlock opens his mouth to ask how the man's managed to get the rest of his victims out of the car once they realised they weren't at their destinations, but he's saved the trouble by the killer opening the passenger door and pointing a gun at his head.

Sherlock flinches back in surprise, but a split-second later narrows his eyes instead. The gun's got a bloody _seam_ down the middle, plus the shape of the mechanisms, sheen from the street lamps… stupid thing's very obviously made of plastic.

"Oh, _dull_," he grumbles before he can stop himself. The cabbie smiles and tucks the fake gun back into his trouser pocket.

"S'pose I won't be needing that with you, huh? You'll follow me."

"You can't make people take their own lives at _gunpoint_," Sherlock grouses as he obligingly climbs out of the cab and trails after the older man. Suddenly he's finding himself feeling strangely let down – he'd been hoping this would turn out to be significantly more interesting than an old codger with a fake pistol scaring idiots into offing themselves.

"Don't worry, it gets better," the cabbie assures him with a reassuring smile over his shoulder, apparently guessing Sherlock's thoughts from the teenager's petulant tone of voice. Sherlock just sighs irritably as he follows the man into the nearest building.

They make their way to an empty classroom, where the cabbie very deliberately flips on only a single bank of lights. Half-dark, gloomy… _cliché._

"So wha'dya think?" the man asks, gesturing to the room. "It's up to you, y'know. You're the one who's gonna die in here."

Sherlock scoffs. "No I'm not."

The cabbie just smiles, gestures to one of the tables. "Shall we talk?"

"I've still got my phone, you know," Sherlock points out as he takes a seat in one of the hard plastic chairs across the table from his would-be murderer. "I could just call the police."

"Yeah…" The man shrugs. "But you won't."

Sherlock scowls slightly but says nothing. After a moment's smirking pause the cabbie leans back and pulls a small glass bottle from his coat pocket.

"Oh I love this part," the man mutters with a grin as Sherlock raises an eyebrow questioningly. "You don't know what's coming yet."

"That would change if you'd just get on with it already," Sherlock quips back in a bored tone. Any trace of nervousness he might have had has quickly dissipated, replaced with a sense of exasperated tedium – pills in menacing bottles and fake guns and semi-darkened classrooms… god, how _dull._

"Alright, alright," the cabbie chuckles, drawing a second bottle out of his pocket. He sets them side-by-side. "Not a very patient lad, are you?"

Sherlock leans back in his chair and fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Whatever. Two bottles, explain."

The cabbie obliges - good bottle and a bad one, victim has to choose for the both of them, all sorts of drama and pomp in the delivery which _quite frankly_ Sherlock's getting more than a bit fed up with. What is this, a spy novel? A faint shock of phantom electricity from the lingering symptoms of detox wriggles up his spine and he shifts uncomfortably where he sits. _Good god_ why won't the stupid bastard just _shut up…?_

"_Yes,_ alright, I understand the_ bloody _rules already. Very threatening," Sherlock snaps, cutting over the last of the man's speech. "So, what, you just tricked a load of morons into choosing poorly? That's it? _God_, how boring."

The cabbie fixes him with a strange, vaguely bemused look. "You're not scared at all?"

"Why should I be?" Sherlock flips a hand in annoyance. "It's a 50/50 chance, hardly a _game_, as you've oh-so-ominously dubbed it. Either that or you've got some sort of idiotic strategy which you think is terribly clever but it's probably just a stupid trick with the pills and _oh right_ your gun is made of plastic, how _frightening_. No, I'm bored. This is boring."

The man blinks. "My gun's…?"

"Fake, yes," Sherlock replies before the question's even finished. "There's a ruddy great _seam_ down the middle, you moron. What is it, a novelty torch or something?"

In answer the cabbie reaches into his pocket, points the fake pistol directly at Sherlock's face and pulls the trigger. A tiny flame pops out the end.

"Lighter," the man admits with a small shrug. "None of the others noticed."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "_Clearly._" He slaps his hands down on the tabletop as he moves to stand. "_Well_, this has been fun. I look forward to reading about the court case."

"Just a second, before you go…" the taxi driver calls, still seated in his chair. Sherlock pauses on his way to the door and looks back. The cabbie smiles again – a smug, self-confident look. "Did you figure it out?"

"Figure _what_ out?" Sherlock grumbles, then catches on a fraction of a second later with a tired huff. Now that all the excitement's gone he's finding himself fighting off a headache; all he wants to do is go back to John's flat and whinge until his friend agrees to make tea. "Oh, you mean your stupid pills? I don't know, it's a trick or something. Four times without dying pretty much rules out random chance and you're _old_ so, what…? Medicine, maybe? A drug you're immune to but which causes young, healthy people to choke on their own sick and die?"

The man's face quirks in a cheshire grin again. "Nope. One's a sugar pill, one's pure toxin."

Sherlock fixes him with a flat look. A fresh twinge of intrigue shoots through his chest, but he quickly smothers it. No, fuck it, this is all _stupid._ His head hurts and he's beginning to get a chill and _honestly_ couldn't this whole catch-a-murderer business have been at least a _little _more interesting? He bites out another sigh and glares.

"Right, because I'm obviously going to take the word of a man whose idea of a good time is _abducting a teenager_ and trying to trick him into committing suicide. _Poorly_, I might add. Piss off."

And with that he turns on his heel and marches straight out the door.

Behind him the cabbie smirks, leans back in his seat and produces a jet-black phone from his coat pocket. He smiles to himself as he waits for his call to connect.

"Mr Moriarty…? Aye, sir, think I've just met someone you might be interested in."


	14. Fourteen

It's well into the month of December when it finally occurs to John that he's become flatmates with a sixteen year old.

Granted the revelation could have come a lot sooner, but Sherlock has a tendency to disappear for days at a stretch (not to get high, John hopes fervently, but of course there's no way of knowing short of stalking the boy) and that makes it easy to forget that, technically speaking, Sherlock has no home besides John's. Which by extension means that _John's_ flat is also _Sherlock's_ flat… and that makes them flatmates.

That fact doesn't bother John nearly as much as he thinks it probably ought to. Because really, shouldn't the thought of living with a teenager drive any self-respecting twenty-something to panic? But he honestly doesn't mind. Yes, there are moments that are irritating or ridiculous and sometimes downright confusing _(like Sherlock coming home one evening entirely coated in pig's blood, for one, and inexplicably carrying a harpoon - he'd said he found the weapon in a skip but refused to enlighten John as to how exactly he'd acquired a dead pig to shoot it at) _but there are just as many times where his young acquaintance behaves with more altruism and maturity than all of John's adult friends combined.

Because after all, how many of the student doctors currently at Bart's would go out of their way to track down the perpetrators after spotting a mugging take place on the pavement outside, and then go on to report all three suspects to the authorities within hours? And then there's the blackmailers, child abusers, rapists… Sherlock's taken to noticing the unlikeliest of details in random strangers' behaviour or appearances, tying everything together into a neat little bow of logic and then delivering it all (quite literally, in the form of anonymous notes and emails) right to the hands of Scotland Yard. It's like that first taste of detective work went on to spark an obsession in the boy's hyper-brilliant mind, and now he doesn't want to do anything with his time but catch criminals.

Speaking of that first case, though… Sherlock still refuses to detail exactly how that ended. He'd arrived home half an hour after John did, announced that _'the world is utterly dull and every single human being in existence is an uninspired twat'_ and then spent the rest of the evening setting up John's laptop to allow him to send emails to the police with perfect untraceability. The next day the papers reported a London cabbie by the name of Jefferson Hope had been arrested for the murders, citing a 'good samaritan' as the key to the entire investigation. Sherlock had scoffed at the moniker, all derisive scorn and sarcasm… but a clipping of the article had nonetheless found its way into his violin case, neatly folded and tucked into the storage pouch with the rosin and spare strings.

Having something worthwhile to focus his energies on seems to be doing Sherlock quite a lot of good, anyway, so John hasn't really had cause to complain about the whole crime-fixation business. And it's not just mental wellbeing but _physical _health as well - after quite loudly declaring it _'impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days'_ he's switched to using nicotine patches. (John, while of course supportive of the decision, secretly suspects it had less to do with actually wanting to quit smoking and more that Sherlock's figured out he can game the NHS for free nicotine replacement instead of having to pay for cigarettes.) And as far as John can tell the teenager hasn't relapsed on the cocaine at all. Granted, that seems to be because he's traded in his chemical addiction for a mental one… but _sod it_ John'll take what he can get at this point. Being hellbent on seeking out deductive work and thought puzzles is a far better alternative to needles and chemicals, after all.

It's nearing the end of John's shift on a dreary Wednesday afternoon when he walks into the examination room of a patient he's supposed to do pre-exams for… and finds it occupied by a _very _familiar teenager.

John, of course, doesn't notice until he's already shut the door. He glances up from the chart in his hands _(listed as a 16 year old male, in for... wait, what…? who wrote this chart?) _and immediately feels his face shift into an all-too-familiar expression of resigned exasperation.

"Cowpox, really?" he asks the boy seated on the exam table across from him.

Sherlock smirks, right shoulder lifting in an offhand shrug. "It's a very mild case."

John fights the urge to roll his eyes. He huffs a short sigh instead and closes the fake chart. "I do actually have proper work to do, you know."

"Of course you do!" Sherlock replies cheerfully, hopping off the table and retrieving the messenger bag he's taken to toting around with him - full of notebooks and pens for recording case details, usually, but occasionally there'll be the odd dead animal in a plastic baggie or some miscellaneous trinket salvaged from a bin mixed in as well. John's learnt well to never risk riffling through it unless absolutely necessary.

Sherlock deftly affixes the strap of his bag over his shoulder. "Your job is to assist patients, right? Well I'm currently your patient, and I require assistance. So let's go."

John responds with the most unimpressed stare he can muster. "Sherlock, we've been through this. I can't just up and leave work whenever you get the urge to go gallivanting off after criminals."

"We're not _gallivanting after criminals_, John, it's a case! A proper case!" Sherlock seems about ready to hop up and down with glee. "Someone hired me through the website!"

"The web…? You have a website?" John asks somewhat blankly.

"Of course I do, John!" Sherlock quips with a dismissive wave of his hand. "What on earth do you think I do all day while you're working?"

"I have no idea. Ritual sacrifice, maybe? I'm pretty sure the sink's still got stains."

Sherlock fixes him with an affronted look. "That was _one time_, and I _told_ you the rats were already dead when I found them." After a pause he huffs and grabs John by the wrist in an ineffectual attempt to tug him in the direction of the room's exit. "Come _on _John there's no time for all this nonsense. We've got places to be!"

"Sherlock, no!" John snaps, managing to extricate his arm before Sherlock can yank his shoulder out of the socket. "I've got to finish work, alright? You'll just have to wait until I'm off."

"But that'll be _forever!_"

"It's…" John checks his watch. "… just gone half past four. You can handle waiting thirty minutes."

"No I can't!" Sherlock objects.

Regardless, he quickly allows himself to be led out of the exam room. Even agrees to take a seat in the hospital lobby without too much of a fuss. The sudden compliance would be ominous if John wasn't already fully aware that Sherlock's just doing it in hopes of setting his friend up to be in a good mood when he inevitably comes out and asks for help with something ridiculous. Won't work this time, John decides. He'll accompany Sherlock on whatever harebrained adventure he's got planned, yes, to keep him out of trouble... but he's _damned well_ not going to do anything besides chaperone. Having one full-time job is difficult enough, thanks - doesn't need to get shanghaied into Sherlock's little detective business as well.

Still, as they're getting into a cab some fifty minutes later_ (Sherlock spent the entire wait alternating between reading the free healthcare pamphlets off the wall stands and fidgeting) _John can't help but ask.

"So... what exactly did you need me for?"

Sherlock looks up from where he's digging around in his bag (John spots a bundle of bloodied feathers rolled up in clingfilm amongst the miscellaneous debris - considers asking after it but then decides he'd really rather not know and looks away).

"You're my assistant, obviously." Sherlock says this as if it should be completely self-evident; and as usual when Sherlock uses that tone of voice, it's not in the slightest.

"Your… assistant," John repeats, nodding dubiously. "Right. And you needed _me specifically_ to assist you because…?"

Sherlock goes back to his messenger bag, flapping his free hand in an indecipherable gesture as he replies. "You've really never been the most _luminous_ of people, John, but as a conductor of light you're unbeatable."

"Oh. Well cheers," John says, blinking. Then, "… wait, what?"

"Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others," Sherlock clarifies in a distracted, slightly muffled voice. Practically his whole head is buried in his bag now, wild curls sticking up as he hunts for something at the very bottom.

John's brow furrows for a moment as he tries to process what… _might_ have been an insult? Or was it a compliment? Or _both_, somehow…? But as he glances over to see what Sherlock's finally fished out of his bag (a small fold-up magnifying glass and a few loose coins) he quickly catches on to the real reason he's here.

"You ran out of cab fare again, didn't you?"

Sherlock pouts slightly and glances sidelong at him. "There's nothing saying you can't be a conductor of light _and _a responsible adult with a steady disposable income."

John considers the benefits of telling Sherlock to go to hell, but decides against it. They're already in the cab, after all, and besides they _are_ friends. Instead of getting annoyed he just huffs a light sigh of resignation and leans back into the seat with a quirked, exasperated smile.

"Fine... but I'm going to have to start charging Mycroft child-minding fees if this keeps up."

"Excellent plan," Sherlock remarks. Then lifts a hand to flip John off. "Also fuck you, I'm not a child."

John chuckles, then turns his head to look out the window. "So where are we headed?"

"To the bank!" Sherlock announces excitedly. Then, for some reason, he frowns. "Er… but first a café nearby. We have to meet up with the client."

"You don't sound too thrilled about that," John points out, glancing back over to Sherlock. The teenager scowls and fiddles with the folding magnifying glass in his hands.

"He's from…" he starts, then cuts off and huffs. "Never mind, it doesn't matter. I've already deduced the majority of the case details from what he wrote in his email anyway, we just have to get him to let us in to see the crime scene."

"Crime scene…?" John's not liking the sound of that. "I thought we weren't chasing after criminals?"

Sherlock just grins, his flash of a dark mood evaporating away. "Not _yet. _Who knows what'll happen though?"

John groans lightly to himself and leans back into the cab seat. "I'm never getting to bed tonight, am I?"

"Sleeping's _boring_, John."

John just nods in silent agreement - he's found it's usually easiest to go along with the madness rather than try and fight a losing battle for sanity - and tilts his head back to rest against the seat. Maybe he can get a nap in before he's inevitably dragged off into some insane adventure. Beside him Sherlock fishes a notebook out of his bag and starts scribbling out haphazard theories.

No more than fifteen minutes later they're pulling up outside a café in one of the financial districts. John rouses from his not-quite-nap reluctantly and pays the cabbie while Sherlock clambers out and stands impatiently on the pavement.

"You can just wait outside if you'd like," Sherlock offers, his voice gone strangely… what, _nervous?_ It's not so much timidity though as a vague sort of unease. But despite the odd tone John doesn't even consider taking his friend up on the suggestion - no, he's _far _too ready for some caffeine.

"I'd rather go in and get a coffee, if that's alright with you."

Sherlock scoffs, flipping a hand. "I don't care what you do."

It sort of sounds like he _does_ though, John muses to himself as they step inside. Sherlock insists on John going and ordering coffee while the young 'detective' locates his client, which is just fine with John. Thankfully the line is short and it only takes him a few minutes to get his beverage. He walks away from the till and scans the small establishment, looking for Sherlock.

Ah, there. Over at a table by a potted plant. The boy's sitting alone, fiddling with his mobile. John strides over and takes the seat across from him.

"Client's not here yet?" he asks with a sip of his coffee.

"Just arrived now." Sherlock tilts his head up, indicating the door, and John turns to look. A boy around Sherlock's age is walking confidently towards them - black hair combed neatly to the side, a roguish smile and the bearing and expensive designer clothing of the obscenely rich. He reaches their table and takes the remaining empty seat, grinning at Sherlock.

"Bloody hell, so it's true!" he exclaims with a not-quite-joking laugh. "You really did run off to be a homeless junkie!"

Sherlock stows his mobile back in his pocket and glances up at their guest with a scowl. "Sebastian."

John raises his eyebrows, glancing between the two teenagers. Beneath Sherlock's usual mask of indifference he can clearly spot the glimmerings of something like an angry dog gone on the defensive - hackles raising, seemingly seconds away from baring his teeth in a growl... and Sebastian, meanwhile, is grinning like a smug cheshire cat. They quite obviously know each other from somewhere (most likely school) and whatever that prior relationship was it doesn't seem to have been particularly friendly.

John takes another sip of his coffee to hide a slight grimace. Just his bloody luck, the first proper case Sherlock gets is from an old bully of a schoolmate.

_If I have to break up a fight I am definitely sending Mycroft a bill, _he decides in a tone of vague resignation.

With a slight sigh he leans back in his seat and waits for the fireworks to start.


	15. Fifteen

Sherlock is working very hard to avoid punching Sebastian in the face.

It's a little bit difficult when the bloody git won't _stop fucking __grinning, _but he'll manage. Has to, for the sake of the case – for the sake of a chance of having something to _do._ So instead of lashing out he crosses his arms over his chest, reminds himself not to slouch down in his chair or sulk too obviously while Seb smiles that smug bastard half-smirk of his and opens his fat mouth to speak again.

"Flanagan's had a betting pool going, you know! Long odds on you surviving six months." Seb laughs, like that's the most hilarious damned thing he's ever heard. Sherlock carefully keeps his stare level. "Course most of us put our money on _'dead in a fortnight'_. Looks like Crenshaw's the only bloke who'll win anything at this point."

"And what was his prediction?" Sherlock asks in a semi-sarcastic grumble, slightly interested despite his general state of irritation. The vast majority of his former classmates are, as far as he's concerned, a bunch of useless bastards. But in his three years of forced attendance to that wretched excuse for a boarding school he'd run into a scant handful of human beings with whom he didn't immediately end up in a relationship of mutual enmity. Crenshaw, moronic though the boy often was, had been one of those few oddly-tolerant individuals.

Seb snorts in amusement. "Idiot thinks you'll live to be a hundred or some bollocks."

"God forbid," Sherlock replies with a roll of his eyes. Across the table John catches his eye, the older man raising one eyebrow in a silent question of _'who's this?'. _Sherlock keeps his expression neutral and leans back in his chair.

"John, this is Sebastian Wilkes," he says, indicating the boy to his right. "Sebastian, John Watson."

Seb seems to startle a bit and looks over at John. "Oh, hello!" he exclaims with a wide, false grin and extends a hand in greeting. "Sorry, didn't see you there. You're with Holmes?"

John grasps the proffered hand but drops it after barely half a shake. His smile looks a little forced. "Yeah, we're…" he hesitates, glancing over at Sherlock. "… er, colleagues."

"Colleagues…?" Seb repeats with a strange, bemused expression. Sherlock huffs to himself and resists the urge to roll his eyes again.

"_Friends,_" he asserts, shooting John a slight glare. The med student shrugs, one hand lifting slightly in capitulation (the unspoken message being a clear '_well sorry, I wasn't sure what we were calling it now'_), and takes another sip of his coffee.

Seb glances back and forth between them. "Er… _friends?_" Then he smirks to himself, looking about halfway between amused and disturbed, and looks to John. "Wow, alright… to each his own I guess. But aren't you a bit old for…?"

John cuts him off before he can finish his sentence. "_Just _friends," he snaps in a tone of uncharacteristic sternness. "And yes, I'm a fair few years older than the both of you. So I'd really appreciate it if we could cut the childish innuendo and behave like adults here."

Seb snaps his mouth shut, a bit surprised but apparently somewhat chastened – enough to straighten his posture in an effort to look more mature, at any rate. Sherlock can't help a smirk sneaking over his features, but quickly stifles it at a sharp glance from John; evidently the older man is _not _in the mood for teenaged theatrics. With a slight cough Sherlock sits up a bit straighter as well and forces his features back into their usual neutral façade.

"To business then, shall we?" he remarks towards Seb, then continues on with just the slightest hint of smugness to his tone. "So someone's broken into your father's bank, he's hesitant to report the incident to authorities due to concerns of investors catching wind of the security breech, you don't trust the private detective he's hired to look into the matter and in desperation you've enlisted me to provide a second opinion."

Sebastian blinks. "Wow, you got all that from my email?"

"Obviously."

Abruptly the other boy grins and leans back in his chair, his earlier attempt to come off as well-mannered evidently forgotten. "Hah! Still as much of a freak as ever, Holmes."

Sherlock doesn't react – why would he? He's heard that word repeated so many times it barely registers as having meaning anymore. Out of the corner of his eye though he catches John's expression shift; the man looks… angry? For a millisecond Sherlock thinks it might be in response to what Seb just said, but he quickly dismisses the notion. More likely John's just getting irritated by the juvenile banter. Fair enough, really, because Sherlock is too.

He shifts his gaze back to Seb. "I need to see the crime scene."

"Right, right." The other teenager's tone quickly drops back down to something approaching polite – apparently he's noticed John's quiet disapproval as well – and he adjusts the sleeves of his overcoat somewhat self-consciously before standing. "Dad's bank is just across the way. If you're finished here…?"

He says this last toward John, who flashes him a (rather forced) smile and drains the rest of his coffee. "Right behind you."

The trip to the bank is mostly uneventful. Sherlock of course had planned on passing it by in stony silence, but John (seemingly feeling the need to keep up a pretense of polite conduct no matter the situation) instead takes it upon himself to engage Seb in conversation.

"So where do you go to school?" the medical student asks the other boy pleasantly, all trace of his earlier annoyance masked by a front of affable demeanour.

For some reason Seb glances over at Sherlock before answering. Sherlock meets the other boy's eyes with a blank stare, having no idea what the idiot could possibly be looking to him for and not particularly caring anyway. After a pause Seb looks back to John.

"Eton College," he answers with a polite smile. "Just started sixth form."

John's expression shifts into something like mischievous amusement as he glances sidelong at Sherlock. "Eton…? That's the one with the suit and tails for a uniform, isn't it?"

"Er… yeah?" Seb looks slightly confused. Sherlock glares straight ahead and resolutely ignores John's silent smirking in his direction. He quickly decides to change the subject before the entire conversation has a chance to devolve into some sort of asinine discussion of formal school attire.

"Was anything stolen?"

"What?" Seb asks, blinking over at him.

"_The bank._ Was anything stolen?" Sherlock repeats irritably. Beside them John's managed to wipe the stupid grin off his face, though he's still very obviously planning to bring up the issue of Eton's horrid uniforms later on – probably as some sort of joke or teasing jab. Ugh, so bloody _predictable. _For once, Sherlock thinks in annoyance, it would be nice to not know exactly what everyone's going to do before they do it.

Seb finally processes the question. "Oh! No, nothing. Just defaced an office and left."

"Whose office?"

Seb shrugs. "Nobody's. Belonged to Sir William, the bank's former chairman. Dad's left it empty as a sort of memorial. You'll see when we get up there though – they just splashed some paint around, some sort of message. But they left in less than a minute so it's got to be a huge hole somewhere."

"Why are you having us investigate?" John pipes up, his earlier amusement mercifully dissipated. _(Sherlock finds himself having to quell an involuntary, somewhat ridiculous urge to smile at the man's casual use of the word 'us'.)_ "Your dad's hired a detective already, hasn't he? And correct me if I'm wrong but you don't seem too fond of Sherlock."

"_Fond _of him?" Seb echoes with a laugh and a disbelieving lift of his eyebrows. "Is anyone?"

John's only reply is a slight glare, but Seb just shrugs again before continuing. "Alright, well… my father hired this guy to look into the matter, but it's been two whole days now and he still can't make heads or tails of anything. I was looking around for an alternative source to suggest to Dad, found Holmes' website, and well…" Seb glances over at Sherlock, who just stares impassively back. "You're a right freak of nature, Holmes, but you're good at what you do. I figure if you can tell who's been copying their maths work by the ink stain on their shirtsleeves you're probably more than qualified to tell us what's going on here… or come up with a theory, at the very least. Then I can pass whatever you find on to Dad and hopefully prevent our family getting caught up in a media circus by week's end."

Sherlock nods silently in response. They've come to the front entrance of the bank, and the next several minutes are spent trailing after Seb as the young man convinces the secretaries that he's brought some friends by for a tour. Soon enough they're on the upper floors, wandering through rows of day-trader's desks to an office in the back.

"There, see?" Seb gestures to a large portrait of the bank's late chairman, which along with the wall beside it has been defaced with thick lines of bright yellow spraypaint. "Someone's left us a little message."

From there it's more details – locked security doors, no alternative exit, perpetrated near midnight. Sherlock lets John do most of the talking, as he's far too interested in poking around the crime scene. Gauging distances, taking photos with his phone… good god, there's information _everywhere._

As the other two move out of the room to look at the security footage _(what for? Seb's already told them when and how quickly it happened; looking at a video frame of the same data won't change anything) _he moves over to the large bank of windows. Latches affixed to the edges… able to be opened?

Evidently so. He steps through the glass partition onto the eave of the building and looks down. Long drop to the pavement below, not particularly interesting. Glances around instead. Possibility of someone having climbed…? Very likely, especially considering the window isn't kept locked. It would be simple to come and leave within the allotted time from this entrance. He steps back into the room again and regards the defaced portrait, closing the window behind him. A message for someone, but who…? One of the day-traders, has to be.

John and Seb return just as Sherlock's figured out the most likely recipient of the note (the bank employees hadn't been particularly pleased by a teenager running around their desks, dodging in and out of the spaces around support pillars, but apparently hadn't been able to figure out quite who to complain to about the issue and thus left him to his business).

"Got anything?" Seb asks, raising an eyebrow as Sherlock liberates one of the paper placeholders from behind the nameplate of one of the office doors along the far wall.

"Maybe," Sherlock replies evasively. True, he knows more or less how the vandal must have gotten in, but reporting just the _method_ would be too easy. There's something larger going on here, something _big_… and Sherlock's not about to pass up the opportunity to return to the crime scene later should he require more data. No, best to keep his theories to himself until he's got everything pieced together from start to finish.

Seb frowns at his obtuse response, looking vaguely annoyed. After a second though the teenager huffs a short sigh and nods in apparent understanding. Sherlock glances back and narrows his eyes at the other boy in confusion – Seb's _far_ too stupid to have caught on to his reason for withholding information, so what…?

"Right, okay, I get it," the young man says with an air of resigned acceptance. He pulls a folded cheque out of the lapel pocket of his coat. "Four figures. Just tell me what you've found."

Sherlock quite suddenly scowls. What, _money? __That's_ what Seb thinks he cares about? As if he bloody needs any! Stupid bastard thinks Sherlock's like the rest of their classmates – too spoilt by their lavish upbringing to manage without the exorbitant means their parents provided for them. He sneers and pointedly ignores the cheque in favour of meeting Seb's gaze with a sharp glare.

"I don't need an incentive, _Sebastian,_" he snaps acidly. Seb blinks, apparently confused, and before he can reply Sherlock shoulders past him to head for the lifts. He waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder as he walks. "I'll text you when I've got something. Good luck with the betting pool."

Behind him he can hear John hesitating, then saying something – muttered exchange of pleasantries probably, so he ignores it. More important things to think about. Eddie Van Coon, cryptic messages and vandals with enough acrobatic skill to scale a skyscraper. This, he thinks, is looking _much _more promising than that stupid cab driver. Definitely worth all the trouble of coming out here and dealing with Seb again.

"Sherlock!" John calls suddenly, breaking into his thoughts. Sherlock looks back as the older man jogs to catch the lift before the doors close, and immediately his gaze flicks down to the piece of white paper clutched in his friend's hand. He glares as he looks back up to John's face.

"You took his money?"

John raises his eyebrows in a sort of disbelieving, half-exasperated expression. It would be something of an odd look if Sherlock weren't so used to seeing it whenever the two of them interact for more than five minutes.

"Well, he hired you right? That means you should get paid," the med student explains as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world. "That's how businesses work, Sherlock."

Sherlock quirks a brow at him. "Oh, so this is a _business_ now, is it? Not just _gallivanting?_"

John looks a bit uncomfortable, but then shrugs noncommittally and tucks the cheque into his pocket. "Guess so." Sherlock, unconvinced, simply continues to stare at the other man. After a moment John finally relents with a huff and throws his hands up in surrender. "Alright fine! I wasn't about to pass up a thousand quid for the sake of your pride, okay? I've got bills!"

Sherlock drops his dour expression to instead snort in amusement. "Avarice, John, really?" He smirks and leans back against the railing on the wall as the lift begins to descend. "We'll make a proper bastard of you yet."

"You're a bloody terrible influence," John grumbles. But he's smiling as he leans against the handrail next to Sherlock. "So where are we off to now?"

Sherlock grins to himself, plucking the strip of paper he'd pilfered off the day-trader's office out of his pocket with one hand as he looks up an online address directory on his mobile with the other. He flips his wrist to brandish the printed name toward John.

"Not many 'Van Coon's in the phonebook, are there?"


	16. Sixteen

In retrospect it probably shouldn't have come as too much of a shock that they'd managed to find a dead body.

But _honestly_, John finds himself thinking, couldn't he at least have had a little _warning?_ One minute they're conning their way into an apartment complex _(and watching Sherlock do his little "I'm a perfectly normal teenage boy and won't you please let me in to visit my Gran" routine had frankly been quite disturbing enough for one afternoon, thanks) _and the next they're poking around some poor bloke's flat; coming across said bloke's _lifeless corpse_ and of course Sherlock's giddy as a schoolgirl over the whole thing.

"It's murder John! It _has _to be!" the boy exclaims, hands hovering over the corpse as if he can somehow pick up clues through psychic resonance. John covers the speaker of his mobile (on hold with the police while they send out an investigation team) and quickly strides over to yank the teenager back by the hood of his sweatshirt.

"Sherlock, _corpse,_" he snaps, letting go of his friend's jumper. "Don't touch it."

"I wasn't touching anything!" Despite his assertion Sherlock quickly tucks his hands into his hoodie pocket as if to prove he's _really _not touching, then goes back to visually examining the body and the room and every object therein. John rolls his eyes and turns away just as there's a loud knock at the front entrance to the flat.

"In here!" John calls, and within seconds a gaggle of uniformed police officers bursts into the bedroom.

The man leading the group steps forward and holds up what appears to be his badge. "Hands up and back away from the body!"

John quickly obeys, and immediately finds himself bundled into the custody of one of the officers. Behind them he can already hear Sherlock whingeing.

"Why on earth are you detaining_ us?_ How are we suspects? What kind of idiotic murderers would call the police on _themselves__?_"

"Sherlock will you just shut up and do what you're bloody told for once?" John barks sternly over his shoulder. Sherlock mercifully obeys, though some sort of distressing sixth sense is telling John he's most likely got a death glare trained on his back. Well, fine with him, he decides; Sherlock can glare as much as he likes so long as they don't end up getting arrested on suspicion of murder.

Soon enough they're being questioned by one of the sergeants, somehow managing to get the whole debacle more or less straightened out... well, sort of. _Generally._

"So, let me go through this all one more time..." the sergeant says slowly, brown eyes locked on his notepad as he scans over what he's written with a vaguely disbelieving expression. "You came over here to visit your Gran." He looks up to Sherlock, who's standing next to John with his hands tucked into his jeans pockets looking just this side of petulant. "Who, you freely admit, doesn't actually live in this building at all."

"Must've got the address wrong. All these places look the same anyway," Sherlock counters in a bored monotone, not even bothering to sound the least bit convincing. John gently shoves the teenager's arm - a wordless _'will you shut the hell up' - _and gets nothing but a scowl for his trouble.

The policeman (introduced to them earlier as a Sgt. Lestrade) raises his eyebrows at their behaviour but nonetheless continues on. "And you," he says, looking to John. "You're his... guardian?"

"I don't need a bloody-" Sherlock starts, but John steps on the boy's foot before he can finish.

"Yep," he confirms with a smile, cutting over Sherlock's yelp. "His brother asked me to look after him while their family's, er... busy."

"Busy being a load of-"

_"Shut it," _John bites out under his breath. Sherlock huffs dramatically and rolls his eyes but thankfully does as he's told. Lestrade glances between them a few more times, then looks back down to his notes.

"Right then... and _you_ think it wasn't suicide, because the victim's left-handed," he goes on, pointing his pen at Sherlock. "Which you're asserting despite having never met the owner of the flat. The flat which, it should be noted, you apparently had to climb down from the other balcony to even_ reach._"

"Thought Gran might have had a heart attack," Sherlock quips blandly. Beside him John fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Somehow he manages to hold a straight face and just stands next to his younger friend impassively, as if all of this is perfectly normal. As if he isn't best mates with a _lunatic teenager_ who's managed to drag them both into the thick of a murder investigation. _Again._

"So you admit you can't possibly know if this man is left-handed?" Lestrade presses, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock abruptly huffs an irritated sigh, all trace of his flippant attitude evaporating to a look of abject irritation. "Good _god_, is everyone besides me _blind?_ Look," Ignoring John's stony-faced glare of disapproval the teenager launches into one of his rambling, needlessly condescending deductive explanations. "Coffee table on the left-hand side, coffee mug handle pointing to the left, power sockets - habitually used the ones on the _left_, pen and paper on the left hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his _right_ and took down messages with his _left_." As he speaks he's pointing toward every object he lists like it should be the most obvious thing in the world. He stops suddenly and fixes the police officer with a withering stare. "Do you want me to go on?"

Lestrade blinks, looking somewhat baffled. John decides he should really step in before this gets completely out of hand.

"No I think you've covered it," he tries, but Sherlock just scoffs.

"Oh I might as well, I'm almost at the bottom of the list," he replies flippantly, then gestures toward the kitchenette. "There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his _left_." He drops his hand and turns to glare at Lestrade. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. It's the only _logical _explanat-."

"Right, sorry. He just... does that," John cuts in over the end of Sherlock's speech, hoping to head off the officer's inevitable barrage of suspicious questioning before they both end up in custody for knowing far too much about a murder scene. He glances sidelong at his companion with a slight glare but Sherlock just meets his gaze with a scowl.

"Don't make it sound like a bloody neurotic tic. I'm _deducing. _It's _science._"

John ignores him and looks back to Lestrade. "So, are we...?"

"But why would he have a gun then?" the police sergeant suddenly asks, expression looking just this side of... what, _intrigued?_ John stops short and blinks, then grimaces slightly. Oh lord, _don't encourage him!_

Beside him Sherlock's expression flits from petulant to smug in about half a millisecond. "Obviously he was waiting for the killer. Makes sense as he'd just been threatened."

Lestrade's eyebrows lift in confusion even as John grimaces and raises a hand to rub the back of his head exasperatedly. Good _god_, for a supergenius Sherlock can be _so bloody thick._

"We can't _possibly_ know that, Sherlock," he mutters, leaning slightly toward his friend. His voice comes out a bit clipped thanks to a tightly-clenched jaw. "We just came to visit your Gran, _remember_?"

Sherlock blinks, shoots him a questioning look, but then his mouth opens in a silent _'oh'_ and he hurriedly backtracks. "Er... I mean, _probably_ just been threatened. Because that would be the most likely explanation, wouldn't it? You know, for his, er... having a gun. Oh! And having missed work, of course. Right, so- _ow! _What?" John drops his hand from where he'd pinched his friend's arm and glares - Sherlock immediately catches on with a slight wince. "That is, I meant... er, perhaps you should check with his employers and find out if he went in to work today? Because if he was absent that would be... rather suspicious. Probably."

Lestrade is, predictably, far from convinced. "Right..." After a pause he snaps his notebook shut and tucks it neatly into his lapel, then fixes them with a dubious, scrutinising look. "You know, I think it might just be best if I brought both of you in for a formal statement."

John bites back the urge to groan. God, he is _really_ never getting to sleep tonight.

:::

The ride to the station is a tense one. Sherlock, of course, is quite determinedly taking no notice whatsoever of John's obvious irritation with the whole situation. And John, for his part, is not about to drop his _really quite reasonable_ posture of stonefaced displeasure. They sit on opposite sides of the back seat of Lestrade's squadcar and pointedly ignore each other. Silence stretches thick between the three of them for several minutes.

"Oh bloody hell!" Sherlock exclaims suddenly as they come within sight of the police station. He sits up from the slouch he'd fallen into to glare viciously out the front window. "_Seriously?_"

Lestrade looks back over his shoulder at the abrupt outburst, then back around at the apparently-normal street before them. "What? What's wrong?"

John's about to ask the same thing, but then he spots it too: a black towncar idling just ahead of them by the kerb. He grimaces slightly. "Brilliant."

Sure enough when they climb out of the squadcar it's to find a very familiar besuited man with a brolly waiting for them beside the building's front entrance.

"Ah, Detective Sergeant Lestrade, was it?" Mycroft greets their escorting officer in a polite monotone. John glances sidelong toward Sherlock to find the boy scowling venomously at his elder brother.

"Er... yes?" Lestrade answers in vague confusion. "And you are...?"

Mycroft smiles his usual irritatingly-patient smile and takes a step forward. "Orders from on high, I'm afraid. I'll be taking over from here."

"Taking ov...? But, they're murder witnesses," Lestrade counters with a slight sputter. "I've got to-"

"Oh just shut up, it's pointless to argue with him," Sherlock snaps suddenly, cutting Lestrade off. He glares at his sibling. "What's this then, another _kidnapping?_"

"Nothing of the sort," Mycroft quips blandly, ignoring the now very befuddled Lestrade standing between them. He turns his gaze on John with another tight smile. "Mr Watson, I wonder if you wouldn't mind escorting your young friend to my car? I've some paperwork to clear up here, after which we have... business, to attend to."

"Er..." John hesitates, not entirely sure if he's even _capable_ of forcing Sherlock to go anywhere he doesn't want to, but the boy preempts his refusal with a long-suffering sigh and a roll of his eyes.

"_Ugh. _Come on, John," he grumbles acidly, "he'll only have us arrested if we try to run."

John blinks and turns to follow his friend as they leave Mycroft to speak to Lestrade. "Would he really?"

Sherlock glares over his shoulder. "He _kidnapped you off the street_ last month, what do you think?"

John doesn't get a chance to respond to that, as not two seconds after they've gotten within sight of Mycroft's towncar he finds himself nearly knocked over by Sherlock stumbling backwards into him with a startled cry.

"What-?" John starts in alarm, but he's cut off by what sounds for all the world like a screeching kitten.

_"Sherlock you utter git!"_

"Ow! _Stop! _What the _hell-!?_" Sherlock yelps. John steps away from the tangle of limbs his friend has apparently transformed into, and after a second's baffled staring realises the teenager in front of him has been tackled by a petite, well-dressed, _very _irate little girl.

"You just ran off and _left_, you stupid _berk!_" the girl screeches again, smacking at Sherlock's midsection with her tiny fists. The boy shoves at her and manages to get her at arms-length, well out of hitting range, only to wince as she lands a kick to his shin instead. John raises his eyebrows as Sherlock fixes him with an aggrieved look.

"John, meet my sister," he bites out in a voice only somewhat strained. At his words the little girl abruptly stops her flailing attack on her brother and snaps her head over to look up at John.

"Oh!" Quite suddenly the girl drops all hint of violence. "Hello!" she chirps sweetly, taking a step away from her sibling as she smooths down the skirt of her pinafore with a polite, saccharine smile. John returns the gesture, feeling somewhat bewildered, and takes the chance to get a proper look at her now that she's not busy attempting to beat his friend to death.

Long, dark hair in a shade identical to Sherlock's done up in dual french plaits, with the same crystal-blue eyes and pale complexion as her siblings. She and Sherlock obviously take rather strongly after someone - both seem to have similar, birdlike bone structure in contrast to Mycroft's more solidly-built form. Certainly doesn't appear to harbour the same flippant attitude toward physical upkeep as Sherlock, however, as she's dressed very neatly in a powder-blue pinafore dress, with a darker blue cardigan over it and spotless white stockings. Overall she has the vaguely unsettling look of a porcelain doll come to life... everything just a little _too_ perfect, like she's been lifted straight out of a children's fashion catalogue.

John finds himself wondering whether or not that says anything about the Holmes parents. And, if so, how utterly out of place Sherlock must have been with his flagrant disregard for anything resembling proper etiquette or decorum.

The girl introduces herself with a dainty little curtsy, breaking into John's thoughts. "My name's Enola, how do you do?"

Beside her Sherlock makes a disgusted face and rolls his eyes.

"Er... quite well, thanks," John responds with a slightly bemused look. "I'm John."

"Pleased to meet you, John!" Enola replies with the most syrupy, sickly-adorable smile John's ever seen in his life. Before he can respond Sherlock reaches over and flicks the girl in the side of the head.

"Give it up you little harpy, you're not fooling anyone," he admonishes with an irritated glower. Enola clutches at the at the spot he'd flicked with a startled squeak and turns to glare up at him.

"It's not _fooling_, it's being _polite,_" she counters in the exact same tone of annoyed, sullen petulance Sherlock uses when he's whingeing about something. John can't help but find himself ever so slightly disturbed by the similarities between them. Like watching a tiny, hyper-feminine version of his friend.

Before Sherlock can respond a far more dignified voice interrupts their bickering. "Enola, I seem to recall asking you to wait in the car."

John looks up as the dapper figure of Mycroft approaches them, the Woman-Who-Is-Not-Named-Anthea trailing behind him with her nose to her Blackberry. Sherlock glares over at the older man.

"Why on earth did you bring _her?_" he asks, unconsciously mirroring his sister's exact tone and facial expression as he points angrily down at the girl. John resists the urge to snort in amusement while Mycroft just raises his eyebrows.

"Because she asked for a day out in London for her birthday, and Mummy was indisposed."

"We went to the zoo!" Enola supplies happily.

Sherlock just scowls. "It's not even her birthday!"

Enola huffs up at him and stamps her foot. "It _is_ my birthday, idiot! You forgot the date again, didn't you?" She rolls her eyes, once again managing an eerily similar imitation of her brother. "Honestly Sherlock you forget all the silliest things! It's no _wonder_ you ran away from school."

Sherlock freezes, glaring down at the little girl with an affronted look. Enola just puts her hands on her hips and glares right back. John's not about to get in the middle of _that _confrontation, so he turns and glances sidelong at Mycroft instead.

The man's expression seems caught between resigned exasperation and a sort of weary fondness. He catches John's look and meets his eyes with a slight smile.

"Welcome to the family, John," he mutters drily, then gestures toward his car. "Shall we?"


	17. Seventeen

Mycroft's towncar is one of those models with the rear seats arranged to face each other, for better facilitation of meetings and other dull, politically-critical conversations. And, predictably as anything, Sherlock somehow manages to find himself shoved uncomfortably into one of the rear-facing seats (which he hates) next to his baby sister (whom he severely dislikes).

Overall this is just really not shaping up to be a great afternoon.

"So what's got Mummy _indisposed_ this time?" Sherlock asks acidly as he snatches his messenger bag out of the inquisitive reach of his sister to bundle it protectively on his lap. The girl pouts up at him for a moment, her imminent exploration of the contents of his satchel rudely thwarted, then flops back into her seat with a dramatic sigh and a flip of one of her plaits.

"She's run off to be a _gypsy,_" she announces matter-of-factly. Sherlock blinks, not sure whether that's supposed to be a joke or not. Enola _sounds_ dead serious... but the thought of their austere, fashion-conscious mother prancing about in loose hair and bare feet is nothing short of disturbing. He glances to Mycroft for clarification, and finds their older sibling's face set in an expression of bland exasperation.

"Mummy had a last-minute business arrangement to settle in Romania," he explains patiently. _(Beside him John quirks a slightly bemused smile, evidently having no idea what's going on and content to let it all wash over him.)_ Sherlock frowns and looks back toward his sister.

"I think I like Enola's version better," he decides with an annoyed wrinkle of his nose at their mother's (predictably) callous behaviour. _Of course_ business dealings are more important than her childrens' birthdays - why _wouldn't _they be? He's struck once again with a sense of justification for his decision to leave; their money-minded parents can go and bloody _fuck themselves._

Enola crosses her arms over her chest and huffs as she looks out the window. "I wish she _would_ go and be a gypsy," she mutters petulantly. Across from them Mycroft raises his eyebrows, opening his mouth to speak, but gets cut off by his mobile chiming from his pocket.

Sherlock and Enola both watch as their brother retrieves the device out of his coat, reads over the message and... _yep_, clear as anything: wrinkle of his forehead, thinned lips, immediately composing a reply; Mycroft has urgent work. So _that's_ the reason he's gone to all the bother of coming by to collect John and Sherlock (besides the whole _getting them out of a murder charge_ thing) - not to drag them off on some deranged government or family business, but to be a pair of bloody _babysitters._ Sherlock resists the urge to sigh, instead glances sidelong at his little sister. The girl meets his gaze, her expression mirroring his own look of irritated resignation; obviously she's worked it out as well.

John apparently catches their exchange and looks toward Mycroft with a questioning lift of his brows. "Is something going on?"

"Mycroft's going to force us to look after Enola while he stages some sort of covert assassination," Sherlock supplies, leaning back in his seat and unconsciously adopting the same posture as his sister: arms crossed, fixing an unimpressed stare on their brother. Mycroft glances up from his phone and raises an eyebrow at his siblings' identical stormy glowers.

"Facilitating an informal weapons treaty, actually," he corrects without so much as an ounce of shame for the admission. "I assume you're up to the task of entertaining a nine year old for a few hours?"

"What if I'm not?" Sherlock spits back with a fierce glare. Beside Mycroft John's covering his mouth in a poor attempt to conceal an amused smile. Sherlock glares at him too for good measure - what the _hell_ is so funny!? - and then realises he and Enola are probably accidentally copying each other again. _Ugh_, for fuck's... but then _honestly _how are they supposed to help it? They both take after Mummy, after all - fiery and unpredictable _(though Violet Holmes is much more inclined to finding loopholes in the rules of society as opposed to out-and-out breaking them, as Sherlock generally does),_ while Mycroft is a picture-perfect copy of Father's dull bureaucracy. And really if the girl has to be an irritating funhouse-mirror version of _one_ of them Sherlock would much rather it be him; at least this way she's halfway _interesting_.

Their dual-barrelled glaring fails to have much of an effect on either John or Mycroft (much to Sherlock's annoyance) and he and his sister find themselves summarily ignored. After a moment John _(infuriatingly) _smiles and turns to their older brother with a shrug.

"I'm sure we can manage her for a bit."

"I have utmost faith in you, Mr Watson," Mycroft replies in a tone of bland politeness.

Sherlock just scowls.

:::

Not twenty minutes later John, Sherlock and Enola are deposited outside a tourist district, Enola having expressed a desire to visit a souvenir shop _(for what purpose Sherlock has absolutely no idea, and doesn't particularly care)_ and John suggesting they get a Chinese on the way. A compromise is thus reached, and they're soon wandering around a small, cramped store full of tacky foreign merchandise in one of the city's Asian wards.

"Ooh, look at this one Sherlock!" Enola chirps happily, thrusting a cat figurine into her big brother's face. Sherlock shoves it away with a glare but she just pokes it insistently into his stomach instead. "_Look!"_

"Enola there is no word in the _entire English language_ which can adequately express how little I care about your stupid plastic cat," he snaps irritably. His sister pouts up at him, while he responds in kind with a glower. Ahead of them John chuckles to himself at their behaviour and absently picks up a ceramic teacup.

"I think we should get something for Mycroft," Enola continues blithely as she turns to look at a display of _sumi-e_ paintings.

"Why?" Sherlock grouses.

"To cheer him up in case his assassination order doesn't work out."

"I thought he said it was a weapons treaty?" John pipes up. Sherlock and Enola both turn their heads to fix the older man with twin exasperated looks.

"He thinks Mycroft actually tells the truth?" Enola asks her brother sidelong in a sort of half-disbelieving, half-pitying stage whisper. Sherlock sighs and shakes his head ruefully.

"John is a very simple, trusting soul," he confirms in a low mutter. They both continue to regard John with expressions of false compassion for a few seconds longer, before the medical student throws his hands up in annoyance.

"Well sorry!" he snaps irritably. "God forbid I take people at their wor- oh, what's...?" He cuts off mid-sentence, staring at the underside of the teacup still in his hand. "Sherlock, look at this."

Sherlock quirks a brow in interest and steps forward to grab the cup out of his friend's hand. Affixed to the underside is a sales label... upon which is written the _exact same cipher_ they'd seen spraypainted on the wall of the bank. His face splits into a grin.

"Ancient Chinese number code!" he exclaims excitedly, digging out his mobile to take a photo. "That's it! _Brilliant!_"

"Ancient _what?_" Enola grabs onto his arm in an effort to hoist herself high enough to see the underside of the teacup, but Sherlock quickly shakes her off with an irritated flick of his shoulder.

"Nothing, it's for a case."

"A _case?_ What sort of case? Like a _mystery _case?" she asks again, and Sherlock rolls his eyes slightly before glaring down at her.

"Were you going to buy that stupid cat for Mycroft or not?"

His little sister scowls. "If you don't tell me what you're talking about I'm going to tell Myc you've been smoking again."

Sherlock freezes, eyes snapping down to his sister. She wouldn't _dare-! _But she just glowers right back up at him, deadly serious and _not_ to be trifled with.

John, apparently not liking the prospect of full-on sibling warfare potentially breaking out amongst a load of valuables, chooses that moment to step between them.

"Gosh, I'm starving!" he announces with a false air of cheer as he grabs them both by the shoulders to herd them toward the door. "How about that Chinese then?"

:::

None of the Holmes children are generally allowed to eat anything more unhealthy than a gourmet pork roast, and so it's with a sort of vindictive pleasure that Sherlock instructs his sister to order all of the greasiest, most cholesterol-laden dishes on the menu.

"Mummy would have a _fit_ if she saw this!" Enola exclaims in a tone very close to wonder, poking at the oily noodles on her plate. Sherlock smirks to himself and steals her fork to spear one of the over-seasoned bits of chicken.

"Well it's a good thing Mummy's not here then, isn't it?" he responds flippantly. Across the table from them John rolls his eyes and takes a sip of the miso soup he'd ordered along with his fried rice.

"Why am I not surprised the first thing you do on an outing with your sister is try and corrupt her?"

"_Corrupt_ implies she had a modicum of innocence to begin with," Sherlock retorts. Enola smacks him on the arm in response to the jab and without thinking he smacks her back. She clutches at her shoulder where he'd _(barely)_ struck her and turns a pathetic, doe-eyed look of hurt on John.

"John! Sherlock _hit_ me!"

"Sherlock, be nice to your sister," John quips blandly, unruffled as he calmly takes another sip of his soup. "And Enola, don't whinge to me, I'm not your mum."

"Could've fooled me," Sherlock mutters with an annoyed roll of his eyes. He allows his sister to steal her fork back from him, then uses his now-free hand to flick through the photos on his mobile. The Chinese number code... of course. It makes perfect sense, especially when coupled with the indent in the suitcase back at the Van Coon murder... about the shape of a vase, wasn't it? And who better to make smuggling trips out of Asia than a _day-trader_...

"So you're investigating some sort of graffiti code?"

The childish voice of his sister cuts into his thoughts, and Sherlock snatches his phone against his chest as he realises the damned little harpy had been looking over his shoulder.

"_No_," he snaps with a glare, shoving the girl away from him. "Finish your dinner."

"It's just something one of Sherlock's old school mates wanted us to look at, nothing really interesting," John puts in helpfully. Enola turns her head from her brother to fix John with a sceptical look.

"Sherlock didn't have _school mates_," she points out. "Everyone hated him, that's why he ran off."

Sherlock scowls. "Like you would know."

"Well I don't think people generally punch other people in the face when they _like_ them," Enola clarifies with a shrug. "And you always looked like you'd been punched in the face coming home for holidays so I just _assumed..."_

"Oh shut up!" With a fierce scowl he shoves his phone back into his jeans pocket and turns to glare at the street outside. Beside him he can practically _feel_ his sister and John exchanging looks, and _fuck's sake if they think it's any of their bloody business...!_ But then, mercifully, something outside catches his attention. Phonebook left out, torn plastic, damp pages... why?

"How long has it been since it rained?" he asks suddenly, unwittingly cutting John off just before the older man could say something.

"Er... since Monday, I think?" John supplies. "Why?"

Sherlock doesn't bother answering. Instead he bolts up from his seat, grabs his messenger bag, and strides quickly out of the noodle shop. Only explanation for a damp phonebook sitting just under a window with no rain in the last few days is something falling, splashing it... but then there can't be anyone home because the phonebook hasn't been collected, leaving...? _Yes_, a break-in. And in the same neighbourhood as the souvenir shop that _just so happens_ to use the same rare number symbology as the cipher at the bank. True, it's only very tangentially related, but it's _something._ Well worth investigating, in any case.

(And besides which, he refuses to admit, he is _entirely_ not in the mood to listen to his sister explain all of Sherlock's social failings to John like they're in a bloody gossip circle. Let the little harpy spill all his secrets if she wants to, he won't stop her... but damned if Sherlock needs to be around to hear it.)

There's an unsecured fire escape ladder round the back; jumping up to grab hold of it is the work of half a second, and he's soon climbing through a window on the second floor of some woman's flat. Nearly knocks over a vase on the sill - _just like the intruder must have_ - and looks around. Laundry, milk, shoe imprint... _picture frame,_ calloused fingerprints... hmm, so all evidence points to a small, athletic thief... oh! _Athletic!_ Didn't steal anything either - this could very well be the same culprit from the bank! He fights the urge to grin to himself in giddy pride at his luck. Everything's just slotting so neatly into pla-

_But wait,_ he stops mid-step, looking around the flat with a sudden critical eye. _If this is the same man from the bank, why's he suddenly gotten so sloppy...? He's left the ladder down, window's op- oh._

_OH._

"... shit," Sherlock mutters to himself, realising his mistake.

There's just enough time to turn around - to blink wide-eyed into the glass-sharp gaze of a small Chinese man behind him - before a length of fabric loops around his neck.


	18. Eighteen

"Oi, wait! Sherlock, where are you-?" John cuts off as Sherlock simply steps past him, walking out of the noodle shop without so much as a backward glance. Baffled, John looks to Enola for clarification and gets nothing but a shrug and a vaguely exasperated expression from the little girl.

"He's going to investigate that flat across the road," she explains with a flick of her fork to indicate the general direction she's referring to. John blinks and glances out the window where, sure enough, Sherlock's just disappeared around the back of the building in question.

"How..." he starts, but then stops himself. "Never mind." Obviously Enola's going to be every bit as alarmingly prescient as her brother - he's more interested in making sure Sherlock doesn't go and get himself arrested for burglary than in discovering exactly how many details his boring, average mind has failed to notice this time. He quickly digs a few notes out of his billfold (enough to cover the tab, hopefully) and stands to leave.

"Ooh, are we going after him?" Enola asks with a delighted grin.

John stops short, realising only belatedly that he's now got _two_ kid geniuses to look after. He rubs the back of his neck in indecision as he looks down to Enola.

"Well, er... I thought I should probably make sure he's alright," he hedges. "He usually manages to get himself into trouble when he runs off like that."

Enola snickers slightly and stands as well, smoothing down her pinafore as she does do. "Oh, I know. One time he stormed off in a huff and ended up stuck in an old wine cellar for a day and a half!"

"That's... awful. How did he get out?" John asks, not sure if he should be amused or worried by that particular revelation. Honestly the more he hears about his friend's childhood and school years the more he starts to understand how living on the streets might have seemed a better alternative; the Holmes parents seem to have been far more concerned with finances and social events than their childrens' welfare.

"Oh, Mycroft came home eventually and asked where he was," Enola explains flippantly, completely unconcerned. "Mummy and Father were out of the country, of course, and I was about five I think. I said I didn't know where he'd gone and then Myc went and found him."

"You didn't have a... I dunno, a nanny, or someone?" As they cross the road John instinctively herds Enola to walk in front of him, well within sight in case anything should happen. Not that he's entirely sure what he could realistically _do_ in the event of attack_ (or whatever it is he thinks might happen... a kidnapping, maybe?)_ but it makes him feel better to know where the girl is regardless.

Enola laughs at his question. "Well of course we had a _nanny_, but why would she bother looking for Sherlock? He ran off like that all the time."

John feels his face twist in slight consternation - do the Holmes parents just not care _at all_ about their kids? - but the expression quickly drops as he's distracted by the fire escape ladder they've come across. It's still moving slightly, meaning Sherlock's almost certainly just climbed up it, but the teenager's left it hanging in such a way that John won't have a chance in hell to reach it even if he jumps. He huffs to himself and glares up at the window through which he's almost certain his friend's just disappeared.

"Sherlock!" he tries, but predictably gets no response.

"Why don't we try the front door?" Enola pipes up, tugging on John's trouser leg while she points toward the other side of the building. John sighs and nods his head reluctantly.

"I guess we could ring the bell," he concedes. Enola gives him an odd look before she begins walking off in that direction.

"Why? There's not going to be anyone home; didn't you see the phonebook?" she says with something like exasperation. John doesn't quite know what on earth she's talking about _(phonebook...?)_ but shrugs anyway.

"I was thinking more that Sherlock might let us in." They get to the front door, where John presses the buzzer a few times. As he'd half-expected, though, there's no answer.

Enola's looking at him strangely again. "You're very optimistic, aren't you?"

"Well there's not really a better option, is there?" John replies with a slight huff. "I s'pose we could just wait out here..."

"Do you hear that?" Enola suddenly cuts in, eyes widening. She crouches down to the letter slot and pushes it open. John kneels down beside her, listening... clear as day, they can hear the sounds of a scuffle. His expression morphs into alarm as he springs back up and pounds on the door.

"Oi! Sherlock!" he yells, but Enola quickly shoves him out of the way so she can get to the doorknob. John looks down and realises with a start that the little girl's pulled a pair of bobby pins out of her hair; the now-loose strands of her tight french plaits fall in soft curling wisps around her face.

"It's only a cylinder lock, hang on..." she mumbles. John watches in abject amazement as the tiny, doll-like girl fiddles with her hairpins in the lock like a seasoned thief.

"How on earth do you know how to _pick locks?_"

"Sherlock taught me," she snaps half-irritably. "It's not that hard."

Sure enough a few seconds later the latch clicks, and she shoves the door open with a little self-satisfied flourish and a look to John which seems to say _I told you so._ He just shakes his head, baffled, and gently guides her to walk behind him as they creep into the flat.

"Sherlock?" he hisses, trying not to yell too loudly - they _have_ technically just broken and entered, after all, and are now walking straight into a potential fight scene _(though the sounds of struggling seem to have stopped... John's not sure if that's a good sign or a very, very bad one). _He rounds the corner into the sitting room, Enola trailing just behind him, and as he does so all thoughts of remaining silent are quite abruptly driven from his mind.

_"Sherlock!" _Enola screeches as she darts out from behind John's legs toward her brother. The teenager's lying prone on the carpeting, arms fallen limp to either side of his neck where, horrifyingly, he appears to have been clawing at a length of fabric wound around his neck.

John doesn't even spare the time to yell. Instincts borne of countless life-or-death traumatic surgery sessions kick in and he overtakes Enola in a few long strides, crouches down next to his fallen friend and checks for a pulse - carotid _and_ radial, because somehow maybe the redundancy will _help_ and _oh thank god..._

"He's alive," John announces with a relieved sigh. Sherlock apparently takes that as a cue to make that fact known himself - before John can so much as check for airway blockage the boy coughs once, then gasps a great, wheezing breath and begins to hack in earnest as his eyes fly open.

"F-Fucking... _fuck,_" he sputters, tugging at the fabric which John's already pulled partially loose. Lips pressed in a thin, worried line John pushes the near-flailing teenager back to the floor and digs out his mobile one-handed.

"What happened?" the junior doctor asks sternly. Above them Enola is standing stock-still with her hands to her face, looking terrified and a bit weepy.

"Suspect... was still... h-here..." Sherlock rasps, coughing again. John frowns and continues to hold the boy down by his shoulder _(Sherlock's weakly attempting to struggle into a sitting position - definitely not having any of that, not while there's still risk of carotid compression or secondary swelling)_ while he dials 999 with his free hand.

"What're... you doing?" Sherlock asks, glaring at the phone in John's hand.

"Obviously he's ringing for an ambulance, you idiot!" Enola bursts out. The presumably angry tone she'd probably been going for comes out more like a frightened squeak. Sherlock blinks and tries again to force John's hand off his shoulder so he can sit up.

"M'_fine_," he insists. The statement is somewhat undermined by the coughing fit that accompanies it. John, of course, is far from convinced. He glances around them, seeing no sign of Sherlock's attacker, and decides it'll be fine to risk running back to the front entrance to get the address of the flat they're in.

"Enola, make sure your brother stays put," he orders Sherlock's little sister as he (reluctantly) gets up. "I'll be right back."

When he returns a moment later _(having relayed the scant necessary information to emergency services on his way there and now on hold)_ he finds, to his vague amusement and general relief, that Enola's taken him absolutely seriously. In fact she's now sitting on Sherlock's left bicep, pinning him to the floor, with her arms crossed and a _very_ stern glare on her tiny porcelain features.

"John said to stay put, so _stay put_," she admonishes as her brother shoves ineffectually at her with his free arm.

"I can't feel my... _hand_, you harpy," he hisses back at her.

John just smiles and shakes his head. It would probably be prudent to give Sherlock a stern lecture, he acknowledges, perhaps try to prevent this sort of thing happening again... but that can wait til later. Right now he's honestly just relieved to see his friend alive and breathing.

The phone at his ear clicks to life again as the dispatcher re-engages the call, and John turns away to speak to the paramedics now coming through the door.

:::

"I still don't see why this warranted a bloody hospital trip," Sherlock grouses as he kicks his legs against the side of the examination bed he's been confined to for the last hour or so. John, sitting in a chair nearby alongside Enola, rolls his eyes. This is the third time they've been through this; Sherlock just can't seem to stop complaining for five seconds, bruised trachea or not.

"Secondary swelling, risk of blood clots, latent carotid dissection," John rattles off once again, not even bothering to explain the medical terms this time. Both the younger Holmes's know full well what he's talking about anyway.

Beside him Enola yawns and swings her feet back and forth a few times over the laminate flooring.

"This was quite exciting until it got to the dull waiting around part," she remarks blandly. Sherlock, prodding at his neck again, shoots her an annoyed look.

"If you're that bored just ring Mycroft and have him collect you."

Enola scoffs. "As if he's not on his way already. You're going to be in _so much trouble, _Sherlock."

"Oh right and what's he going to do?_ Ground _me?" Sherlock retorts with a roll of his eyes. John quirks a slightly bemused smile, reminding himself for perhaps the dozenth time that the subject of all this childish banter is in reality an obscenely-powerful government official and not, as one might guess, an over-protective mother.

Before Enola can reply there's a knock on the exam room door. The three of them look up as it opens to reveal a very pretty young woman in pale blue scrubs and a white lab coat standing at the threshold.

"Er... Mr Watson?" she asks, referencing the clipboard in her hands before looking up to John.

He smiles, ignoring the acid glare Sherlock's fixed on the side of his face. "Yes?"

"I'm the junior doctor overseeing this case," she explains with a slightly nervous smile (most likely due to Sherlock having turned his glare on her instead). "I was wondering if I could speak with you...?"

She gestures behind her, clearly indicating that they move to the hallway, and John obligingly gets up to follow.

"Been on A&E training long?" he asks her pleasantly as they step out of the room and shut the door on the Holmes siblings behind them. It occurs to him as he smiles at the girl that he's somehow shifted into 'flirting' mode, and that _probably_ isn't entirely appropriate when his friend's just been strangled... but hell he's a twenty-three year old man, instincts are instincts. (And anyway she's _very_ pretty.)

"Ah, just a few weeks actually," she admits, then holds out a hand to shake. "Sarah Sawyer."

"John Watson." He takes her hand, features arranged into what he hopes is an affable, non-creepy grin. "I'm doing postgraduate over at Barts, myself."

"Oh, you're in medicine?" she replies with a relieved smile. "That's brilliant, I hate trying to explain prognoses to laypeople."

John chuckles. "I know the feeling. So, what's up?"

"Well, your friend's doing fine, it seems." Sarah glances down at the clipboard in her hands for a moment, then shrugs. "A few days of anti-inflammatories to be on the safe side, neuro checks every few hours in case of clotting... but you probably know all that." She smiles again and lowers her chart to hold it tucked against her waist. "Teenagers are usually pretty resilient though; I'm sure he'll be good as new in a day or so. Bruising aside of course."

"'Course," John echoes pleasantly. "Thanks for the information."

Sarah laughs - demure and sweet and frankly rather adorable. "Nothing you didn't know already."

"Still nice to hear it." Oh lord he's just being _unreasonably _smarmy now. He tries not to grimace at his own behaviour, even as his brain's busy coming up with a million different ways to ask for her phone number.

Thankfully the sound of polished shoes and the intermittent tap of a brolly on laminate interrupts them before John can utter any of the storm of terrible pickup lines running through his head.

"Ah, Mr Watson," Mycroft Holmes intones politely as he comes around the corner to the hallway they're standing in. "Would I be correct in assuming my siblings are located through that door just behind you?"

John shoots a sidelong look to Sarah, trying to convey a general message of _it's fine, he's not quite as imposing as he looks_, and gets another nervous smile in return. He faces Mycroft again before answering.

"Yep," he confirms. "I'm guessing you want to talk to Sherlock?"

Mycroft flashes him one of his usual tight smiles, this one tinged with just a hint of weary exasperation; evidently it's been a long day. John can _definitely _relate.

"As much good as it will do," he mutters with a slight sigh. Then, seeming to take a millisecond to collect himself, he nods once toward Sarah, John, and steps past them into the exam room.

Sarah glances toward John for clarification. "Who was that?"

John just shakes his head with a grin.

"It's a long story."


	19. Nineteen

John has a girlfriend.

Sherlock's not entirely sure why that fact bothers him so much – he's been expecting it for quite some time now, after all. John's reasonably attractive, intelligent, has a steady job… it was inevitable he'd succeed in drawing the attention of a member of the opposite sex eventually.

Still, though, the more Sherlock sees the two of them together the more he finds himself stifling the urge to shove Sarah off a tall building.

It all started just after Mycroft and Enola left them at the hospital _(pathetic attempt at a lecture from Mycroft, easily deflected by Sherlock's bland apathy and a volley of chirped sarcastic comments from Enola – between the two of them they'd managed to get Myc to give up in well under fifteen minutes, nearly a new record)_. Sherlock had been discharged, escorted to the lobby with care instructions… and was then forced to wait around for bloody _ages _wondering where in hell John had gotten to.

The medical student had finally shown up some forty minutes later all bluster and apologies. An excited flush to his cheeks coupled with the way he kept touching his pocket (slight crinkle of a piece of paper there, hastily scribbled digits visible when he transferred the item to his coat) made it obvious what had happened: he'd gotten that young junior doctor's number.

_Well, good then,_ Sherlock remembers thinking petulantly. _Maybe now he'll stop whingeing about us being mistaken for a gay couple._

A few days later, though, and he's feeling much less charitable about the whole situation. John's been out with Sarah _twice_ now, both times blowing off Sherlock's attempts to recruit assistance for the next leg of their investigation. "_I'm trying to have a social life, Sherlock! Not everything revolves around you!"_

Well maybe it bloody well _should._ Because at least when things revolve around _Sherlock's_ interests they don't involve constant doe-eyed anecdotes about _Sarah said this _or _Sarah's got this cat…_ ugh, the horrific inanity of romantic preoccupation. Why in hell would Sherlock care one bit about anything related to Sarah? And why, despite this obvious lack of anyone giving a shit, does John seem so damned insistent on bringing her up at _every possible opportunity?_

Eventually Sherlock had simply given up and elected to finish the case on his own. Not like he needs _John_ to get anything done anyway. Stupid bastard just complains about safety and chasing after criminals, harping on about how he has _work_ in the morning – well sod him and his work. The idiot's nothing but a bloody hindrance.

But still… even a hindrance can provide company. And although he refuses to admit it, over the last few days Sherlock's felt the hollow ache of loneliness begin take root in his chest once more.

It's nearing six in the evening and he's sitting on a low wall near one of the city's skate parks, watching the amateurs attempt to preform tricks as he smokes his way through the packet of cheap cigarettes he'd bought earlier in the day. He still has plenty of nicotine patches left, of course, but those don't do much to keep one warm. Not that the _cigarettes_ really do either… lacking a proper winter coat however he figures he might as well make use of whatever methods might be available. And anyway he likes to watch the smoke drift off while he's thinking.

Looking up Soo Lin's place of employment had been childishly easy – actually getting useful information out of the place had not. In fact practically the second he'd started asking the manager about her missing employee he'd found himself being escorted out of the building. Granted, that was probably more down to his being a scruffy-looking teenager relentlessly hounding her about things that weren't any of his business than a sign of anything suspicious… but still he can't help feeling an important clue resides within those walls.

It might be easier to just get John to go instead – have the older man pretend to be a police officer or something. At the very least Sherlock could wheedle the requisite funds out of his friend to go obtain a slightly more dignified outfit (along with a haircut, he supposes, to be most effective… ugh but _god_ he hates barbers) and then maybe they could _both _go investigate.

But he can't do either of those things. Because John's busy.

… with Sarah.

Sherlock scowls to himself and stubs out his current cigarette (now little more than a smouldering filter) on the wall next to him. The weather continues to be bitterly cold and they're only crap Mayfairs anyway so he immediately lights up another one. Chemicals blast like a tidal wave through his skull and he shakes his head a bit to clear out the rush, wrinkling his nose in annoyance. Ugh, his tolerance has gone to complete _shit_ ever since switching to patches. He feels like a naïve kid sneaking infrequent smokes under his parents' noses again, rendered giddy and damned near incapacitated with each drag.

A chiming noise sounds from somewhere around his left jeans pocket – mobile. Thinking it might be Seb again _(Sherlock had finally relented to his lack of realistic leads a day or so ago and texted the idiot with the break-in method, figuring he should probably uphold his end of the bargain after John's having already accepted payment)_ he huffs to himself in irritation and retrieves his phone.

What he sees when he glances at the screen nearly causes him to drop his cigarette in shock.

_**MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM: FATHER**_

_The hell…!?_ As far as he knows his father doesn't even know Sherlock's run off; the man's been abroad for the better part of the year facilitating government dealings in South America. And even if that weren't the case, what in blazes would he want with _Sherlock?_ The two of them hardly ever speak to each other outside of stilted dinner conversations and the occasional awkward encounter around the manor. Movements hesitant out of sheer confusion (and perhaps a bit of trepidation – what, is he in _trouble _or something?) he opens the text.

_**Happy holidays, son. Your mother and I miss you terribly.**_

Sherlock blinks, brow furrowing in perplexed disbelief. He finds himself wondering if perhaps his father's had a stroke or contracted some sort of fatal disease… but then a split-second later the penny finally drops and he fixes the screen with a flat stare. Oh for the love of-

He huffs an annoyed sigh as he composes a response.

_**Stop stealing phones you harpy. – SH**_

With a roll of his eyes he stows the device in his pocket and looks back out over the skate park, flicking the ash off his cigarette before taking another drag. The rush of nicotine flowing through his brain makes the world seem to distort for a moment. His phone chimes again.

_**its not theft if you intend to give it back**_

He snorts a quiet breath of bemusement and smirks slightly – not _quite_ a laugh, but it's the closest he's come since John started seeing Sarah. And for that alone, he decides, he probably owes Enola at least some basic level of interaction. He holds his dwindling cigarette between his lips as he composes a return message, taking a small (mostly inadvertent) puff of smoke as he does so.

_**Why don't you ask Mycroft to buy you a mobile? – SH**_

_**tried to, he says im too young**_

Sherlock frowns at the reply and taps his foot against the wall a few times in thought. It would be somewhat difficult to scrape together the funds, yes, but he thinks he could _probably_ manage to acquire a pre-paid phone for his sister to use. He hadn't been planning on getting the little harpy anything at all for Christmas, of course, but perhaps if he sends it anonymously…

While he's busy deliberating he gets another text.

_**mum and dad are both home for hols this year its awful**_

His frown deepens.

_**Are they fighting again? – SH**_

_**no just ignoring each other. mums after a bloke in romania i think and dads got a new girlfriend judging by all these texts... can you read portuguese?**_

_**Can't you? Should be close enough to Spanish. – SH**_

_**not when its written by an illiterate**_

_**Says the girl who can't be bothered to use apostrophes. – SH**_

_**shut up i dont know where all the buttons are**_

Sherlock actually chuckles to himself at that one. Before he can message her back however he receives another two texts in quick succession.

_**uh oh dads looking for his phone i have to delete all these. dont text back**_

_**also ill email the portuguese ones to you later and say hi to jon for me okay byeeee**_

Well, so much for interaction with Enola then. He takes another draw off his cig as he stows the phone back in his pocket, then glances idly around the skate park. Should probably find something marginally productive to do. No worthwhile leads on the case, though, and he's loath to head back to John's flat while the newly-forged couple might still be occupying it. After a moment he huffs another sigh and stands up to meander around to the other side of the park. If nothing else he'll probably freeze to death less quickly if he keeps moving.

Over by one of the support structures is a wall almost entirely coated in alternating layers of graffiti. He stops and regards it blankly. Out of boredom he decides to see if he can identify the individual artists based on nothing but stylistic choice. The topmost painting is quite obviously the work of a boy he knows quite well – Rhys _(better known as 'Raz', though Sherlock refuses to pander to the idiotic use of street nicknames). _It's a rather decent rendition of a police officer with a pig nose. Fairly fresh, too, meaning Rhys is probably still around here somewhere.

As if on cue a voice breaks into his musings.

"Admirin' me artwork, Holmes?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes slightly and turns to see Rhys ambling up alongside him. The boy's quite young – nearly four years Sherlock's junior – and really only lives on the streets as an alternative to regular school attendance. Sherlock would call that cowardice if not for the fact that the majority his own poor lifestyle choices were made for exactly the same reason.

"Simply observing," Sherlock replies in a bored monotone. "Admiration would be going a bit far in this case."

Rhys frowns. "Well fuck you then, I think it's pretty good." The boy reaches forward and uses his coat sleeve to nudge a bit of the still-wet paint into a better position, ignoring the stain it creates on the ragged material. As he does so Sherlock catches a glimpse of the drawing underneath… and freezes.

"What was there before?" he asks sharply. He tugs his hoodie sleeve down over his hand and attempts to rub more of the black away to reveal the bright yellow aerosol lines below.

"Oi! Don't smudge it!" Rhys cries and smacks at Sherlock's arm to get him to stop. Sherlock does so – but only because he's uncovered enough of the original tag to see it's another Chinese cipher.

"Who painted this?" Not that he really expects Rhys to know every tagger's work on sight; still, there's always a chance.

Rhys scowls in annoyance but thankfully deigns to answer. "Fuck man I dunno, just some pissant little Asian bloke. He's been leavin' this shit all 'round parks, by the tracks, down alleys – bleedin' everywhere. Dead ugly if ya ask me. I've been all over hell covering it up with better stuff."

"Show me the rest of them," Sherlock orders. Rhys glares up at him.

"You're not the boss of me, Holmes. I ain't doin' shit."

Sherlock frowns and resists the urge to smack the little moron. After a brief pause he grits his teeth in irritation and digs out the half-empty pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket. He taps one out and holds it in front of Rhys' face.

"One fag per site. _If _you can prove they're all by the same artist," he offers, knowing he won't get so much as a word out of the little bastard without a sufficient bribe. As expected Rhys grins like a cheshire cat and snatches the cig out of Sherlock's hand greedily.

"Sounds like a fuckin' deal," he exclaims in glee as he clamps the fag between his lips. He pats his pockets down – apparently looking for a light, but fails to find one. He shifts his gaze up to Sherlock with a pathetic pout until the older teen grudgingly hands over his lighter. Once the idiot's finally got the ember going he turns and starts walking off in the direction of the train tracks.

"Biggest one's this way," he tosses over his shoulder along with a cloud of smoke. Sherlock tucks his hands into his hoodie pocket and follows the young vandal out of the park.

This had better be bloody worth the cigarettes.


	20. Twenty

It sounds horrible to say, but John's actually starting to find himself feeling _thankful_ to Sherlock for nearly getting strangled like an idiot.

Ridiculous to even think about, obviously... but the fact still stands that if not for his teenaged friend being an impulsive nutcase with a penchant for running headlong into danger, necessitating a trip to the nearest hospital with an A&E, John would never have had occasion to meet Sarah.

It's been a very, _very_ long time since John last had a steady girlfriend. Oh, he's had brief flings here and there - a few 'friends with benefits', one-night stands - but there's really something to be said for a real, honest-to-god _relationship._ Going out on dates, buying flowers, having text conversations at one in the morning like a couple of teenagers. Even between their shared load of work and study hours they've still found time to forge a great connection.

And Sherlock, true to form, is being a complete spoiled brat about the entire thing.

For all his tendency to disappear on his own for days at a time Sherlock still doesn't seem to be able to accept that _John _has a life to live too - the boy keeps doggedly demanding further assistance with his little detective case (which, as far as John can tell, is completed anyway; didn't he already send the break-in method to Sebastian?). At first John felt a bit bad for turning him down, but then honestly he's trying to romance a _girl _here! Surely Sherlock can understand that? True, the kid's never once mentioned having ever been so much as smitten with anyone... but he's a _sixteen year old boy_, surely he has some inkling of the importance of a healthy sex life?

But the more John thinks about it, the more he's not so sure. Sherlock might be a teenager in the technical sense, yes, but in nearly every other respect he tends to occupy a category all to himself. Absurd as it may seem Sherlock might very well be the only sixteen year old in existence lacking a libido.

Still, his friend's strange lack of hormonally-driven male instincts hardly means_ John's _required to take a vow of celibacy. Especially not when he's got a lovely young woman coming round for a night in watching films and eating take-away this evening.

It's going on seven and he and Sarah are snuggled up on the sofa together, laughing their way through a marathon of _The Lord of the Rings_, tossing popcorn at each other and occasionally sneaking kisses. It is, as far as John is concerned, absolutely the perfect way to end a hectic workday. Nothing, not even Sherlock bursting into the flat yelling about something ridiculous, could possibly ruin this.

Under ordinary circumstances even _thinking _such a thing would inevitably cause the scenario in question to play out. And in fact even as John's mind briefly detours to wonder where on earth his teenaged flatmate's got to he finds himself expecting the boy to show up within the next second all excited rambling and crime-obsessed madness. But nothing happens. The film continues to play, Sarah snuggles into his side, plants a kiss on his cheek, John smiles back... and Sherlock doesn't appear out of nowhere to derail everything. Very odd.

Not _unwelcome_, necessarily... but odd.

Another fifteen minutes passes by in uninterrupted camaraderie Eventually John can't help glancing out the window, and frowns at what he sees - frost creeping up the edges of the pane, ice glistening on the streetlamps mirrored on the surface of slick pavement. It's quite literally _freezing_ out. And Sherlock still hasn't come home. Is he still out wandering the streets at this hour? Or has he found somewhere to hole up for the night? John knows the daft idiot doesn't have a coat, just that oversized sweatshirt... he'd been meaning to drag Sherlock out to the shops for a warmer outfit but between work and spending time with Sarah he'd just never gotten round to it.

"John?" Sarah asks, breaking into his thoughts. John blinks and looks down at her where she's curled up against his chest. She glances past him to the window with a questioning furrow to her brow, wondering what's distracted him.

"Hm? Oh, sorry." He smiles and rubs at the back of his neck somewhat self-consciously. Shouldn't be thinking about his _flatmate _of all things while having a night-in with a cute girl but he can't really stop himself. "Just, er... wondering where Sherlock's got to."

Sarah quirks a smile up at him. "Try phoning him?" she suggests, giving her tacit approval to interrupt their date night for the sake of John's erratic young friend. John smiles back down at her.

"Guess it couldn't hurt," he concedes, digs out his phone one-handed. They both listen to the ringtone as Sarah pauses the film.

Predictably, Sherlock doesn't answer his mobile. John had been half-expecting that however (for reasons John still hasn't quite been able to identify Sherlock utterly detests telephone conversations, preferring to communicate via SMS or email whenever possible) and so sends a quick text instead. Nothing fancy - just a quick _'where are you?'_. Sherlock will undoubtedly answer with an annoyed quip of some sort, probably complaining about not needing a fussing nanny. There's surely no reason to think anything's happened to him.

Sarah starts the film up again, and they both settle down to watch. Sherlock's fine, John assures himself. Just being a brat like usual.

A quarter-hour later, though, and John still hasn't gotten a reply. He frowns at his mobile, trying to drown out the worry creeping up through his chest. Sherlock's probably just too busy to bother texting back. Or perhaps didn't hear the alert. Never mind that the teenager never goes anywhere without his phone and is perfectly capable of texting without even looking at the screen... no, no, he's alright. Has to be.

"Did you want to go look for him?" Sarah pipes up after the third round of John compulsively pulling his phone out of his pocket to check the empty message queue.

John flashes her an apologetic smile and shakes his head. "Not much point, he's probably halfway across the city digging through rubbish tips. I'd never find him."

Still, though... another moment's hesitation and John removes his hand from around Sarah's shoulders to send another text. Perhaps bribery will do the trick.

_**Getting a chinese, come back to the flat if you want some.**_

There. For all his stereotype-defying oddities Sherlock is still very much a teenage boy when it comes to food. Oh, he _forgets _to eat all the time, no doubt about that - but present the promise of a horrifically-unhealthy meal of takeaway and more often than not he'll materialise out of thin air to make off with a lion's share of the food. Irritating, usually... but if it lures the boy back home on a cold night like this John's quite prepared to order double portions of everything.

All through ringing for delivery he waits for his phone to chime with a text alert, but it never does. By the time he and Sarah are getting ready to pop in the next DVD he's seriously beginning to fret.

Sarah shakes her head at his obvious distress and pats him gently on the shoulder. "Just go out and look a bit. You'll feel better."

John tries to protest but Sarah's having none of it. Finally he relents and grabs his coat off the hook by the door.

"I'll just check the usual spots, maybe he lost his mobile or something," John assures as he steps out. "Back in twenty minutes?"

"Take your time, I'll wait here for the food," Sarah says with a fond smile.

John grins back, plants a kiss on her cheek, and leaves.


	21. Twenty-One

Sherlock feels his phone vibrate in his pocket - second time in ten minutes. He should really check his messages.

It'll have to wait, though, because at the moment he's got a knife to his throat.

He's not entirely sure how it happened to be honest. One minute he was trailing along after Rhys, ignoring the little moron's continuous stream of complaining as they surveyed a large expanse of graffiti freshly applied to a brick wall down by the train tracks. The next, they'd come upon the _author_ of said graffiti - who, by some stroke of luck or genius or serendipity, had been the same young Asian man from Soo Lin's flat. The one who'd nearly strangled Sherlock to death.

And while that had been exciting for about half a minute _(of course, it's all related, it has to be the-!)_ things very quickly stop being entertaining when the man drops his paint can, whips out a knife, and decides to try and finish the job he'd started.

Rhys screams bloody murder and dashes away into the darkening twilight as the mysterious criminal-slash-acrobat lunges toward the older of the two trespassers. Sherlock raises his fists in self-defence, but the shorter man's more than a match for one underweight and woefully unskilled teenager. Within seconds Sherlock finds himself pinned to the freshly-spraypainted wall behind them with a small penknife pressed painfully into his jugular.

Heart thumping a mile a minute in fright, but Sherlock's nothing if not an actor. He dredges up every ounce of willpower at his disposal and forces his expression to remain neutral - flat, unimpressed... almost bored. Best method to put assailants off their guard: react in an unexpectedly calm manner to violence. Only secondary school lesson he's ever found useful.

"That's barely a three inch blade, you'll not have much luck trying to kill me quietly," he informs his attacker in quite an impressively level voice, considering the circumstances.

The Asian man bares his teeth in an expression halfway between a grin and a snarl. "Who says I want to kill you?"

Heavy accent, sounds like a Chinese native. Interesting. Sherlock raises an eyebrow in mock sarcasm.

"Well if you were going for a polite introduction the knife might be a bit muc-"

He cuts off with a hiss of pain as the shorter man digs said knife into the side of his neck - well away from any major vessels but still deep enough into the muscle to hurt like hell. Sherlock's stoic expression cracks for a moment into something like primal terror, feeling the handle of the blade press hard against his still-bruised windpipe. Oh good lord this man _might actually kill him. _No no no no this is _not_ how he wants to die!

"You are scared," the man asserts, grinning wicked through a sharp-eyed glare. Sherlock swallows convulsively and wrestles his face back into a blank stare. The man smirks and continues; "Just a child. Yet you follow me." He pauses, eyes Sherlock up and down with an appraising scowl. "Nothing but a skinny boy. What does he want with you?"

"Who?" Sherlock asks with a slightly confused blink.

The man doesn't answer him, just removes his knife from Sherlock's neck and flips it shut. Sherlock can't help instinctively pressing a hand to the sluggishly-bleeding cut at his throat as he leans into the wall, eyes his would-be murderer warily. Should he try to run, or...? No, bloody hell - the bastard's probably fast enough to catch him without so much as breaking a sweat. This is looking very, very bad.

After a pause the man nods to the collection of graffiti behind Sherlock's back.

"Thinks you'll figure it out, thinks you're clever," he says with a sneer. "Doesn't want you killed."

"How considerate of him," Sherlock replies without thinking, tone dripping with insipid sarcasm as he rubs at his neck. "You are aware that goal might be better accomplished if you'd avoid stabbing me in the ne-" Quick as lightning the Asian man lashes out with the flat of his hand and catches Sherlock across the face, making the teenager lose his footing to slide down the bricks in an undignified heap.

"Make no mistake, you would be dead days ago if it was up to me," the acrobat hisses. "But I follow orders."

Sherlock lifts his head, suppressing the urge to retort with any of a deluge of possible sardonic rejoinders to that statement now flitting through his brain. No, he decides... continuing to mock a man who's just confessed a desire to murder him would doubtless be a poor idea. Instead he pushes himself up into a slightly less haphazard sitting position against the wall, glares up at his attacker.

"A cipher's useless without a key," he snaps, beginning to grow annoyed despite lingering fear. What, so he's become some sort of_ plaything_ for a master criminal? Is this all nothing more than a ridiculous test? "What do you use? A one-time pad, some sort of rhyme? Numbers to letters through any of a million different methods. How does this mysterious benefactor of yours expect me to deduce it, then; trial-and-error?"

The man scoffs. "Telling would be cheating."

"Your stupid rules, not mine," Sherlock retorts hotly. Then he raises an eyebrow. "Or maybe you don't know? You're just the aerosol lackey, are you? Boss must have sent you out to-" This time the kick aimed for his ribcage is anticipated, he easily jerks out of the way and shifts into a standing position with a single fluid motion.

His brief display of coordination seems to have amused the acrobat, who quirks a dark smirk at him.

"A book," the man says simply.

"What book?" Sherlock asks, knowing he most likely won't get an answer but feeling it best to try regardless. "Numbers to pages? Or some other system? How common is it? A reference everyone has or is it unique to members of your group?"

As expected, the criminal just turns to leave. Sherlock just barely stops himself from stamping his foot in frustration like a child. What, he's supposed to figure everything out from a single enigmatic word of a clue and a load of yellow paint? The hell do they think he is, some kind of psychic!?

"Hey! You can't just run off without-! Get back here, you bloody prick!" But it's no use - the man's already vanished into the now-murky twilight of a set winter sun. Sherlock growls to himself and spins around to regard the wall he was nearly murdered against. _Fine_, if the bastard's going to insist on being unhelpful...

Yellow symbols painted in rows across the bricks; longer message than any of the others. Lower letters slightly smudged by Sherlock's having been shoved into them but not unreadable. Some sort of threat? Information? There's no way to tell without a key of some sort. A _book_, though...? Has to be something common. A rare item would too easily tie different members of the organisation together. More likely some random text anyone could pick up and flip through without drawing suspicion.

He stands and stares for a few minutes more. Eventually however the cold begins to seep through, overpowering the waning warmth of adrenaline with tendrils of ice in his veins. Shuddering in an involuntary shiver he wraps one arm around his torso and digs out his phone with the other hand. A photo of the message is more secure, anyway. Can't be erased so easily.

Walking back to a more populous area of the city is an exercise in misery. It's bloody _freezing _out, he's stiff and sore from the scuffle, people he passes on the street keep giving him odd looks. Probably has spraypaint all down his back, he realises after a few minutes' walking and being stared at by fellow pedestrians. Face and neck definitely bloodied, bruised - no wonder they keep looking... but then as far as anyone knows he's just some unfortunate wayward vandal. Nothing to fret over, not likely to call in authorities. Easily ignored.

Besides, he's far too busy mulling over this newest development to care what people on the street think. Every possible book the criminals could be using runs in endless lists through his head. Common... has to be something common. Dictionaries and textbooks, thesaurus... but do they use the same method for different cities? They can't be strictly London-based. Needs to be something available everywhere, something subject to change whenever it's cracked by law enforcement.

As he walks he stares contemplatively at the pavement, which turns out to be a mistake as without being able to see where he's going he soon runs headlong into a tourist couple standing by the kerb.

"_Oof!_" the older man coughs, drops the book he'd been holding as he unexpectedly takes a bony shoulder to the sternum. Sherlock stumbles back in shock but quickly rights himself. Beside them the man's girlfriend's already started scolding him for being careless.

"_Pass doch auf!_" she yells angrily. "_Hast du __Tomaten auf den Augen?_"

"_Entschuldigen Sie, bitte_," Sherlock apologises, switching to German automatically. As he bends down to pick up the man's dropped item, however, he freezes - a guide book of some sort...? Oh, it's the London A-Z! _Perfect!_

A flash of excitement shoots through his chest, and instead of returning the book to its rightful owner he snatches it up, feverishly flips through the pages. Thinks back to the original cipher in the bank - had to have been a warning of some sort, simple threat. First number was fifteen, so...

"_Hey! Gib mir doch mein Buch zurück!_"

"_Minute!_" Sherlock snaps as the German couple demand their book back. _Fifteen... fifteen_... ah! Yes! 'Deadman'! First entry on the page - fits perfectly! Without even thinking he pulls out his phone, a notebook and pen from his bag, and begins translating the message from the train tracks right there in the middle of the pavement. The German couple hangs around complaining for a few seconds, muttering something about how the English are supposed to be polite, then apparently gives up on getting their city guide back and walk off. Sherlock's not listening, of course - _far_ more interesting things on his mind.

Not ten minutes later he's rushing up the stairs to John's flat, the notebook clutched triumphantly in hand along with his phone. He's got it - jade hair pin, tunnel, nine million. Cipher successfully cracked!

Bursting into the flat without bothering to knock, already yelling about what he's found as he skids excitedly around the arm of the sofa to face the vaguely John-shaped form sitting there.

"John! I've solved it! One of them stole an artefact, _that's _why they wanted them both dead - and Soo Lin's involved somehow, it's all got to do with the London A to-"

He cuts off mid-sentence, staring at the person in front of him. That is most _definitely_ not John.

"Er... hello," Sarah says with a small, slightly nervous smile. She sits curled up on John's couch with an afghan over her and a cup of tea, facing the telly which seems to be paused in the midst of some film. Sherlock snaps his mouth shut with a frigid glare and retreats a step toward the coffee table. Oh, right... _she's_ still here. He'd forgotten their little date was tonight.

"Where's John?" he asks in a clipped tone. With an annoyed scowl he sets his bag down on the table behind him, along with his notebook and phone. No reason to keep carting everything around.

Sarah's smile seems to go a bit odd - something like fondness mixed with a hint of worry. Sherlock's expression darkens. What's she got to be _fond_ of? Or worried about!?

"Actually, he's just gone out looking for- oh!" She cuts off as there's a knock at the door. They both look over to the entryway. "That's probably him, then. Or the food?"

"I'll get it," Sherlock snaps before Sarah can get up. Too impatient to even consider how strange it is that John would bother knocking on his own door, he just rushes over and flings it open with an irritated huff.

"_There_ you bloody... are...?"

He trails off with a confused blink, because the man on the other side of the door is most decidedly _not_ John. There's no chance to do anything more than stand there staring like an idiot, however, as not half a second after Sherlock registers the sight of a solidly-built Asian man standing on the threshold instead of his friend he finds himself staring into the business end of a handgun.

No seam down the middle this time, no sheen of plastic - this weapon's entirely real. He feels the blood drain out of his face as he involuntarily takes a startled step backwards into the flat.

The man grins in amusement at Sherlock's hasty retreat, but doesn't let him get any further than a single step. With a deft motion he flips the gun over in his hand and lashes out with the hard stock.

Sherlock feels a sharp pain somewhere around the vicinity of his forehead... then, nothing.


	22. Twenty-Two

John's not quite sure what he expected to find just wandering aimlessly around the city, but Sarah was right... it does make him feel a bit better. If only because the walk gives him a chance to clear his head - to remember that Sherlock had managed to survive on his own for god-knew-how-long before ever meeting John, and that a single nippy night without an overcoat probably isn't going to kill the boy.

Still, he can't help hoping his irascible brat of a friend will have returned home on his own by the time he gets back to the flat.

At first glance the sight of the door left ajar when he makes his way up the stairs seems to confirm that's indeed what's happened. Only Sherlock would ever be absent-minded enough to leave the door unlatched in the middle of December. That settles it, then - daft idiot probably just lost his phone somewhere or forgot to charge it. Not unheard of.

"Hello?" John calls as he pushes the door open. For some reason the lights aren't on. His furniture's cast in an eerie blue glow from the still-paused scene on the telly, murky without the yellow of the room lights. Frowning in confusion he reaches out blindly to his left and flips on the overhead bulbs.

What he sees nearly knocks him out cold with shock.

The sofa's dishevelled - like someone was dragged off it by force - coffee table askew, afghan Sarah had been using tossed across the floor. Beside the table Sherlock's messenger bag's been knocked over in a deluge of scattered pens and bin-scrounged baubles. There's a small half-dried puddle of blood on the hardwood at John's feet, and... oh god. The window.

Harsh lines of yellow paint across the glass panes; three pictograms spell out the same mysterious warning from the bank.

For several seconds John just stares at the scene in stunned disbelief. Quickly, though, his more proactive instincts seem to take hold. He fumbles for his phone, meaning to dial the police... but by some subconscious mistake his thumb instead hits his speed-dial. Sherlock's number? _Of all the-!_

Well clearly that's not going to help anyone. John's about to end the call, but stops short as the loud chiming of Sherlock's ringtone fills the flat. There's a buzzing over by the coffee table - expensive phone rattling atop an open notebook.

John ends the call as he'd meant to but doesn't re-dial the police just yet. He _should_ - he knows full well he should get a hold of the authorities as soon as possible - but the impulse just doesn't get there in time before it's drowned out. Sherlock almost _never_ lets his phone out of his sight. There has to be a reason he set it down next to that particular notebook.

Sure enough when John takes a few steps into the sitting room he finds the paper under the device scrawled top-to-bottom with Sherlock's handwriting. Numbers and Chinese characters... far more than there ever were at the bank. A message in clear block letters underneath alongside the street intersection for an abandoned tramway. John's eyes widen. Oh bloody hell, this is-!

Thoughts of phoning the authorities immediately reassert themselves. He _has_ to get the police in here. But then... is this really something NSY should be expected to handle? From the looks of things Sherlock's stumbled into a bloody _crime syndicate_, who could possibly...?

Instantly the solution clicks, and John snatches up Sherlock's phone off the tabletop. Past the 'MISSED CALL' notification is a photo of a brick wall covered in graffiti - obviously where the translated message came from. John exits out of it and navigates to the contacts list.

As the phone rings John snatches up Sherlock's notebook, double-checks directions on his own mobile and rushes out of the flat.

"Sherlock, it's nearing ten in the evening. What could possib-"

"Mycroft!" John yelps over the too-formal voice of Sherlock's brother on the other end of the line. "Sherlock's been kidnapped by a- a bloody _smuggling ring _or something! They've got my girlfriend too!"

Abruptly Mycroft's voice drops into the serious, clipped tones of a professional. "You're quite sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!" John barks. "There's yellow paint all over my flat! I think it's a death threat!"

"By the sound of desperate running I assume Sherlock's left a note directing you to his probable location." Behind the bland sarcasm John can hear papers shifting, someone typing very quickly on a keyboard. Mycroft's clearly not wasting any time.

"He's, er... translated a message, yeah. From the- he's had this case, you see - like a detective case - and he's been trying to-"

"I'm well aware of my brother's recent activities, thank you," Mycroft interrupts smoothly, a hint of annoyed impatience creeping into his otherwise disinterested monotone. "What is the location?"

"Kingsway! Some sort of abandoned tram line."

"Much obliged," Mycroft quips. And with no further warning than that the line goes dead.

John baulks and takes the phone away from his ear to confirm by the screen that, indeed, Mycroft's just hung up on him. Doesn't stop running, though. Irrational act of bravado or not he can't help but feel morally obligated to actively _do something. _Ringing for help just to sit back and hope it all turns out well... not happening. He's the closest to the scene, best chance to get there before anyone's killed. He _has _to help.

Skidding down the embankment outside the abandoned tunnel he accidentally drops the notebook, but there's not much point stopping to pick it up. He can already see several bin fires shining deep in the gloomy recesses - hears voices discussing something in what sounds like Chinese. Definitely the right place.

Slowing his frantic run down to a careful creeping walk John bends down and picks up a short length of rebar from the floor - decent enough weapon... so long as he manages to forget about the possibility of guns, that is. That thought stops him in his tracks for about half a second before he shakes his head and tells himself to just get on with it. It's dark, anyway, and they're likely no more skilled than a bunch of common thugs when it comes to aim. Hopefully.

As he nears the largest concentration of bin fires he starts to be able to make out distinct voices. One of them sounds like Sherlock - not dead, then, thank god. Silently as possible John crouches behind a metal barrel and peeks around the edge.

Sherlock's tied to a chair, looking supremely pissed-off as he glares up at a short-haired, middle-aged Asian woman standing in front of him holding a gun to his head. The boy's got a trail of blood leaking sluggishly down his face from a wound on his forehead, a nasty bruise on his cheekbone, deep cut on his neck... frankly he looks beat to hell. A few feet to Sherlock's left Sarah sits bound to a chair of her own, gagged with a length of fabric. She looks weepy and terrified but not visibly injured. Small mercies.

"You are a _complete _fucking idiot," Sherlock's voice rings out in affronted echoes off the tunnel walls. John grimaces. Yes, _great _bloody plan, Sherlock - insult the woman with a gun in your face. God's sake, does that kid not possess a _single ounce_ of self-preservation?

"Denial will get you nowhere, boy. We know the truth," the Asian woman replies. "Your loyalty, though... I admit it is unexpected."

"Your bloody _stupidity's_ unexpected!" Sherlock retorts angrily, then screws up his face in a pained wince. Shouting in a too-resonant tunnel with a probable concussion, John guesses - doubtless not pleasant.

"Three times we tried to kill you and your mentor, child. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?" the woman asks; her voice drips honeyed malice. With an expectant raise of her brow she cocks her pistol and aims directly at the teenager's forehead.

Sherlock opens one eye and scowls up at her. He doesn't seem particularly phased by her finger beginning to tighten on the trigger. "That they're a load of brainless morons?"

The woman scoffs but doesn't reply. An oppressive silence fills the tunnel. John's just about to yell and jump out brandishing his rebar - surely she's about to fire!? But before he can so much as move she pulls the trigger.

John's heart seems to stop dead in his chest.

The gun merely clicks.

The Asian woman smirks as Sherlock just continues to glare at her. "It tells you that they are not really trying."

"Oh _very_ threatening," Sherlock snaps with an annoyed sneer. "I particularly liked the bit where it clearly wasn't loaded, you idiot."

In answer the woman pulls a full clip from her pocket and snaps it expertly into its slot. She cocks the pistol once more and points it back at Sherlock, whose furious expression goes a bit pale with poorly-concealed fright.

"Do I have your attention?" she asks. Sherlock flicks his gaze away from the gun barrel and up to her face. "If we wanted to kill you or Mr. Holmes we would have done it by now, boy," she continues. "We just wanted to make him... inquisitive."

"_Me_, not him!" Sherlock retorts in a frustrated snarl; his fear seems to have been momentarily eclipsed by outrage. "For the last bloody time _I'm_ Sherlock Holmes. John's just a sodding medical student!"

The woman laughs. "A teenage boy, uncovering our entire operation? Not possible."

"_Fuck's sake!_" Sherlock practically wails. "You cannot_ possibly_ be this dense!" Presumably they'd already been through this debate prior to John's arrival, hence all the vehement swearing.

Sherlock's captor smiles at his obvious vexation. "Your mentor will be here for you shortly, dear child. Do not fret."

"He is not my _bloody_-!" Sherlock's reply is cut off by a sharp _clang!_ - John startles badly, realises he's been leaning too heavily on the barrel next to him; it's shifted in such a way that a metal pole on the other side's fallen and hit the concrete floor. He grimaces at his own carelessness as the entire tunnel bristles with previously-unseen armed guards all pointing guns his way.

"Ah, it seems our guest of honour has finally arrived," the ringleader crows. "Welcome, Mr. Holmes."

Seeing no other course of action, John straightens up from behind the barrel with his hands raised in surrender. Both Sherlock and Sarah's eyes immediately fix on him. Sherlock's expression's caught somewhere between disbelief and enraged fury while Sarah's seems frozen in a sort of bewildered horror.

John clears his throat somewhat awkwardly and addresses the Asian woman. "Yeah, er... actually, my name's John Watson."

She quirks a dark smirk at him. "We are aware of your little ruse, Mr. Holmes. There's no need to keep up the act."

"She fucking thinks you're me!" Sherlock interjects, voice almost cracking in outrage. "They think I'm your bloody _apprentice_ or something!"

"Silence, boy!" the woman barks. Without warning she fires a single shot into the floor near Sherlock's feet, causing both he and Sarah to yelp in surprise.

"Oi!" John lurches forward, but stops short as the ringleader turns her pistol on him instead.

"Do you have it?" she asks in a clipped tone. All trace of joviality is gone from her features.

John blinks, confused. "Have what?"

"The treasure!" she shouts. "Do you have it!?"

"I honestly don't know what you're talking about," John replies blankly. He flicks his gaze questioningly to Sherlock but the boy just glowers at him.

"I am prepared to do this the hard way, Mr. Holmes," the ringleader informs him.

John grimaces slightly with exasperation. Yes, okay, so that name thing is actually _really_ annoying; no wonder Sherlock was getting so pissed off. "No, I, look... seriously, my name is Watson."

The criminal doesn't even acknowledge his words. Instead she lowers her weapon and signals to a pair of guards standing off to the side. The men step forward and whip a cloth cover off a large object set a metre or so in front of Sherlock and Sarah, revealing what looks to be some sort of enormous crossbow-like contraption.

The woman smiles again. "Everything in the West has a price, Mr. Holmes."

"Watson," John corrects reflexively.

"And the price for their lives... is information."

Sarah lets out a strangled little scream as the crossbow turns to aim toward her chest. John can feel himself start to panic. Oh bloody christ, what the _hell_ are the expecting him to say!? And where in blazes is Mycroft!? "Look, I really, sincerely _do not know-_"

A sudden commotion at the mouth of the tunnel causes everyone's heads to turn. Gunshots ring out, the rattle of automatic fire; a voice shouts over the din.

_"Hands up, everyone on the ground!"_

John doesn't need to be told twice. As he drops to his stomach everything around them descends into chaos. Some sort of gas canister fills the tunnel with smoke, guards yelling and gunshots ringing overhead. It's absolute bedlam.

Strangely, though, John doesn't feel overwhelmed. Oh he's _scared_, alright - it'd be damned near impossible not to be. But beyond the frantic thoughts of _oh good lord what in hell is going on_ he also finds a sort of... calm. Tranquillity, almost; like the entire world's slowed down. Through the smoke bomb he can just barely see Sherlock, who looks to have wriggled out of his binds somehow _(or, wait, had he had them loose this whole time? He was reading a book about Houdini last week, wasn't he?)_ and is now crouched next to Sarah's chair. It looks like he'd intended to untie her but the cacophony of the gunfight's reduced him to curling up into a ball with his arms clutched protectively over his head.

_Easily overstimulated,_ John remembers. _And probably has a head injury - he'll be useless until things quiet down. _Quickly as possible John shifts into a crouch and makes his way over to his friends. Sarah's sobbing in fright, understandable considering the situation. He touches her arm in a brief gesture of comfort and makes short work of the ropes binding her with his penknife. Once free she falls into his arms and huddles to his side.

With his other arm John reaches out and tugs Sherlock toward him. He'd half-expected resistance - perhaps Sherlock yelling about how he's _perfectly fine, not scared at all, piss off! _- but instead the boy pitches easily sideways, buries his face in John's jumper with his hands clasped over his ears, trembling. John's at first taken off-guard by the reaction, but then realises it's not that surprising; for all Sherlock's bravado it's easy to forget just how young he is. This is by far and away more stressful than anything he's likely encountered in his short life thus far. And while John and Sarah both at the very least have ambulance training and experience in emergency medicine to fall back on, Sherlock's completely out of his depth.

John hugs the boy closer and presses his forehead into the mop of dark curls.

Together, they wait for the chaos to end.


	23. Twenty-Three

Bullets scream through the tunnel, ricocheting off the brick walls in showers of sparks. Sherlock curls in on himself and tries to block out the noise, the movement, the _fear_. John's beside him - smell of woolen jumpers, hospital antiseptic and tea. Comforting, yes, but it only does so much in the face of such an assault on his senses.

But then out of nowhere John's gone. It's only the dark tunnel and the bullets and the noise. A gun levelled on his face and Sherlock's tied to a chair again, trying to muster the willpower to pretend he isn't terrified. The Asian woman with the leather gloves grins like a viper and pulls the trigger. Empty... has to be empty, look at the way her grip is balanced, not enough weight in the stock, she wouldn't kill a hostage... but against all odds he's wrong. This time it's loaded. A bullet explodes out of the gun barrel, headed straight for his forehead and there's no time to duck as molten lead meets flesh, bone shatters in a spray of blood and brain matter bursts like fireworks through the air-

Sherlock jerks awake with a barely-contained scream and bolts upright on John's sofa.

Wild-eyed and panting he stares around him in search of the smugglers, the guns, the soldiers... but all he sees is John's darkened flat, abstract shapes of furniture bathed in soft moonlight from a half-curtained window. Nothing's there. Just a dream... he's perfectly safe.

Of_ course_ he bloody is, why wouldn't he be?

With a short, exhausted huff of a sigh Sherlock presses both hands into his eyes and allows himself to flop backwards onto the cushions below him. This is the fourth night in a row he's been woken up by the same stupid nightmare. Hasn't even managed more than a few hours' uninterrupted sleep ever since being rescued by Mycroft's little squadron of special forces down in that tunnel.

Sherlock hadn't actually been quite coherent for the aftermath of the whole debacle. Too much noise, disorientation and the worsening concussion had left him more or less unconscious by the end of it all. John had kept a firm hold of both him and Sarah, though, and apparently all but dragged them out of danger. Sherlock had come back to himself in a hospital bed, confused and annoyed by his predicament but not much worse for wear.

Mild cerebral bruising, they'd told him, and stress. Just needed a few days of rest with some anti-inflammatories; he'd been cleared to leave within a few hours. And Mycroft hadn't even bothered to show up to lecture him_ (doubtless he'll be hearing from him at some point, however - the older man's likely just too busy cleaning up the remains of the smuggling ring to waste time bothering his delinquent younger brother at the moment) _so really, _logically_, the whole event had resolved itself far better than anyone could have reasonably expected. No permanent injuries, no damage, everything perfectly fine... Sherlock should be _over_ this.

But... he isn't.

No, he keeps having the same _stupid _fucking dreams - subconscious playing out every horrible scenario that could have possibly happened. Sherlock dying, Sarah dying... _John_ dying... and christ but it's those he hates the most. When a stray bullet flies off a wall and buries itself in John's skull, bursts through his heart or spine and Sherlock finds his only friend transformed into nothing more than a lifeless corpse sagging bloodied into the dirt...

Eyes still buried under his hands Sherlock shudders. No no no _no_ stop it _stop _there's no point even thinking about any of this nonsense. Forget the idiotic imagery of sleep, cast it out of his mental space. Get up and go _do something - _it'll all fade away soon.

It's barely three in the morning but nevertheless Sherlock resolutely drags himself out of the nest of blankets he calls a bed, roots around in his violin case until he finds a nicotine patch. Not fast-acting enough to really do the job of keeping him from wanting to go back to sleep, especially not with a week of perpetually interrupted nights to contend with, but it'll have to do. He hasn't had enough money to buy cigarettes for a few days now. Too tired to do much busking, and he refuses to ask John for a loan unless absolutely necessary.

After shuffling into his jeans and tugging his sweatshirt over his head he makes his way out of the flat as quietly as possible so as not to wake John. The frigid night air brings his still-foggy mind to a state of alertness with a jolt, making him shake his head with a grimace even as he shivers. Too early to do anything productive and he doesn't really feel like walking anyway, so he simply sits on the stairs leading down to the pavement and leans back to stare at the sky.

Wind-blown clouds shifting in vague patterns over the dull glow of city lights. Not exactly spellbinding beauty. He huffs another sigh to himself and looks back down to the street. Decent neighbourhood - no thugs or vandals milling about, pavement bereft of junkies or dealers...

_Dealers... _the very notion of drugs sends a jolt of desperate, unexpected longing through his gut. It's been _ages_ since he last thought about cocaine. All the excitement of the cases and building his website had drowned out whatever impulses might have passed for cravings in his strange brand of mental processing. Exhausted and freezing under the winter moon, however, and quite suddenly it's all he can focus on.

How much does a half gram cost now? Thirty quid? Less? He could get that. Easily. Pickpocket a pedestrian or two, an hour busking out by the tourist districts... wouldn't be difficult.

Abruptly he shakes his head and tucks his face between his knees, grimacing. _Stop._ Stop stop stop _stop_ remember how hellish detox was, what the crashes are like, how disappointed John would be. Is it worth going through all that just for a fleeting hour or so of blissful quiet in his brain?

_Yes,_ a treacherous whisper of a thought mutters. He growls to himself and clutches at his hair in frustration. _No._ It's not. _It's NOT. _Shut up shut up shut up _SHUT UP._

A quiet, pathetic noise halfway between a whine and a growl manages to escape his chest, swallowed by the silent night air. He shifts his arms to curl around over his knees, presses his face into the fabric of his sleeves. Stop thinking. About drugs, about cigarettes, about John... about _anything. _Just... just stop.

Despite the cold he finds himself lapsing into a semi-conscious trance. What seems like no more than a minute or so passes before he's being shaken awake by a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock startles, nearly toppling over off the step he's sitting on, and whips his head around to see John crouched down next to him.

The junior doctor furrows his eyebrows in a confused expression. "Why are you sleeping on the stairs?"

"I, er..." Sherlock blinks, casts his gaze around. The fog's starting to lighten with early sunrise, John's got his work clothes on... christ, it must be going on five in the morning. He lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as he suppresses a shiver - ugh, his skin's practically frozen. John's still watching him so he forces himself to ignore the discomfort and reply to the question. "... wasn't asleep."

Predictably, John's not convinced. He smirks slightly. "You were snoring."

"I do not _snore_," Sherlock snaps. A pause while he comes up with a plausible excuse, then, "... I was _meditating_."

John raises an eyebrow. "You couldn't have done that inside?"

"Cold temperatures are more conducive to brainwork," Sherlock retorts irritably. With a glare he shoves John away from him and hauls his uncooperative body into a standing position. Best get back into the flat and have a shower or something before he bloody dies of hypothermia.

"Sherlock," John starts hesitantly, looking on while his teenaged friend makes his way back up the stairs. "If you, er... need to... talk about anything...?"

He trails off into an awkward shrug as Sherlock pauses at the top of the steps and looks back at him with a withering stare. Silence stretches between them for a few seconds. Finally Sherlock scrunches his face up, huffs a sigh and shoves a hand through his hair.

"I'm fine," he assures John in what he hopes is a normal, casual tone of voice. "Just... going over a case. I may have drifted off while I was thinking. It's nothing to be concerned about."

John flashes him a bemused smile. "Alright. Maybe just open the window next time, though. Weather report says we're due to fall below freezing soon."

"I'll consider it," Sherlock replies. John shakes his head in vaguely resigned amusement and turns to head off down the pavement toward the hospital.

"Well I'll see you this evening, s'pose."

Sherlock manages to dredge up a pale vestige of an answering smile and a short wave. "Bye."

As soon as his friend's disappeared from sight Sherlock lets his expression drop back into harried exhaustion. Feeling as if he's dragging lead weights instead of legs he returns to the flat. John's left the telly on - he tends to do that when he's in a rush, probably has an exam of some sort this morning. Hopefully he does well.

Abandoning his nebulous desire to take a hot shower Sherlock instead lets himself fall sideways over the arm of the couch and lies with his head dangling off the edge of the cushions.

A news anchor's speaking on the screen, dull monotone of early-morning BBC coverage. Sherlock yawns and considers the benefits of just going back to sleep. Nightmares don't seem quite so threatening during the daylight hours, after all. Maybe between various snatches of an hour here or two there he can cobble together a whole night's rest. He closes his eyes and allows his mind to drift as the telly drones on in the background.

_"... police are urging anyone with information on a mysterious package received yesterday morning to come forward; the parcel contains an Apple iPhone 3GS in a hot pink case, bearing a note which reads "to S.H. - let's play a game", and is suspected to be related to a rash of recent..."_

At the sound of his initials Sherlock's eyes snap open once more to fix on the television. Beside the newswoman is a photograph of a mobile phone, a plain paper note propped up next to it alongside the number for the Met. Lingering wisps of fatigue chase out of his mind as he twists his body to prop himself up on his elbows, staring wide-eyed at the screen.

_'To S.H...?'_ No, it can't be. No bloody _way._

But then who would know about the colour of the case? The exact model of the phone? None of that was public information; only the police and Sherlock could possibly have known. It _has_ to be a reference to him, there's no other logical explanation.

On-screen the news anchor once again urges anyone with information to contact New Scotland Yard immediately. Sherlock hesitates only a moment before reaching for his phone on the coffee table in front of him. Dangerous to out himself as having illicit access to case files... but then he's sure he can always count on Mycroft to have any potential charges dropped. And even if that weren't the case what's the threat of prison compared to the possible excitement of a mysterious phone addressed to him through the_ national news_, of all contact methods? Not a chance in hell is he passing this up.

The table's a bit too far to reach comfortably. With an annoyed grumble he extricates himself from the slightly awkward position he's taken up on the sofa and stands to retrieve his mobile. Rather than sit back down he wanders over to the window, glances out to the pavement as he dials the Met's non-emergency number, then turns around to regard the empty flat while the phone rings in his ear.

Frowning at the telly (which has now moved on to a story about random bomb threats) he scours his memory for who could have possibly heard about the taxi driver case. Had John mentioned it to anyone? Sherlock never bothered writing it up on his website, dull as it had turned out to be. Perhaps a hoax, though...?

_God_ he hopes not. This has all the potential in the world to turn out to be something halfway interesting... so long as it doesn't end up another boring load of tripe like that bloody p-

His thoughts are cut off mid-word as, without any warning whatsoever, the wall behind him explodes.

Sherlock yelps as he's flung face-first into the carpeting. John's window bursts like so much confetti in a shower of bricks and glass - by some stroke of luck the majority of the deadly shards fly straight over Sherlock's head, littering the flat in debris. Instinctively he curls into a protective ball against further danger.

After what seems like an interminable stretch of stillness he slowly, carefully raises his head... looks behind him at the empty space where John's wall used to be.

Distant sounds of car alarms warbling punctuate the otherwise oppressive silence. Sherlock stares stunned at the destruction.

_Alright_, he decides, mind still somewhat stupefied... _this is definitely not going to be boring._


End file.
